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IN CLOTHES THAT YOU PAID FOR . . . EATING AND DRINKING AND LAUGHING. 


THE 

GREAT MIRAGE 

A NOVEL OF 

THE CITY UNDERNEATH IT 


BY 

James l. Ford 


AUTHOR OF 

“THE LITERARY SHOP” “THE BRAZEN CALF” 
“the wooing of folly” ETC. 



HARPER y BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
NEW YORK AND LONDON 
MCMX V 






r. 

tt 



COPYRIGHT, 19 18, BY HARPE R a BROTHERS 
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
PUBLISHED JANUARY, 1915 

M-O 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 



THE GREAT MIRAGE 


CHAPTER I 


N a certain clear, bracing afternoon in early 



October a young girl stood at the front door 
of a pretty, old-fashioned white cottage and, shad- 
ing her eyes with her hand, looked anxiously down 
the dusty road that led to the bustling town a quar- 
ter of a mile away. A single great elm spread its 
limbs over the lowly roof of the cottage and threw 
a pattern of flickering shadows across the well-kept 
beds of cosmos, salvia, marigolds, and other flowers 
of an elder day. In its air of neatness, self-respect, 
and thrift the house suggested a New England vil- 
lage rather than the outskirts of a Mohawk Valley 
manufacturing-town; and a glimpse of its prim, old- 
fashioned parlor furnished in black walnut and 
horsehair, with here and there a bit of shining old 
mahogany, and its exquisitely clean kitchen, with 
its glistening rows of tinware, its well-worn rag 
carpet and comfortable, deep -cushioned arm-chair 
by the sunny window, would have sustained that 
illusion in the mind of any experienced traveler. 

The young girl standing in the doorway was about 
twenty-two, and, although not beautiful according 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


to the standard that measures the exact proportions 
of nose, chin, and eyebrows, was nevertheless dis- 
tinctly attractive. Her mouth was firm, small, and 
obviously designed for something better than mere 
conversation; her face, grave and thoughtful in re- 
pose, broke into dimples when she smiled; her eyes 
were of deep gray, suggestive of honesty, loyalty, 
and clear vision — the sort of eyes that command 
men’s respect and oftentimes awaken love. Evi- 
dently a girl not easily won, but well worth the 
wooing. 

Her figure was of medium height and of an allur- 
ing mold that was somehow not quite in keeping 
with the clear, gray eyes and rather serious face. A 
tight-fitting jacket revealed the contour of her full, 
rounded bust, and she seemed to taper from her hips 
to the tips of her slim russet shoes. Her hands were 
small but, it was plain to see, not unaccustomed to 
work. There was a marked resemblance between 
her and the elderly woman who sat knitting in the 
little parlor, with the cat purring contentedly at 
her feet, the clock on the mantelpiece ticking off 
the seconds, and the afternoon sun throwing long 
beams of light across the floor. 

The Cravens had come to Graytown many years 
before from New Hampshire, lured by the liberal 
salary offered the father and husband as superin- 
tendent of one of the local factories; and his death, 
when Kate, his daughter, was well into her teens, 
had left them anchored there with the home and an 
income of a very few hundreds a year. On this they 
had contrived to live, doing their own housework, 
making their own dresses, caring for their own gar- 
den, and even managing to carry a few eggs to the 
2 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


grocer each week as a partial offset to their modest 
account. They had brought with them from their 
old home among the hills, along with their furni- 
ture and china, an old-fashioned Yankee pride and 
reticence that baffled all inquisitiveness, and at the 
same time served to keep them somewhat aloof from 
their neighbors. 

‘‘Well, at least they’ve never found out just how 
poor we are !” was the comforting reflection in which 
the mother was wont to indulge herself. 

Mrs. Craven and her daughter had never exactly 
fitted into the life of the town. Quite conscious of 
the fact that they were superior in birth and up- 
bringing to those who ranked as their social equals, 
and too proud to seek the society of those who, 
chiefly by virtue of their holdings in mill stocks, 
deemed themselves the local aristocrats, the mother 
and the daughter had kept to themselves, forming 
no intimacies and seldom making or receiving visits. 
That their spare hours had not been altogether 
wasted was indicated by the diamond-paned ma- 
hogany bookcase where Emerson, Bancroft, Dickens, 
Thackeray, Scott, Miss Yonge, and Jane Austen 
rubbed shoulders with such literary extremes as an 
old copy of Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, which 
neither mother nor daughter ever opened, and a 
score of good modern novels which both had hun- 
grily devoured from cover to cover. For although 
there are many women of the better class who can 
get along without much food for the body, there are 
very few who will willingly starve the imagination; 
and these children of New England preferred to feed 
theirs with fiction, philosophy, and even a little 
poetry, rather than with the daily fare of petty gos- 

2 3 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


sip, spiced with an occasional cheap melodrama or 
variety show, that sufficed for their neighbors. 

From Kate Craven’s earliest childhood her inti- 
macy with her mother had been close and unusual, 
but a few months before the beginning of my story 
a cloud, bred of reticence on the part of the younger 
woman' and suspicion on that of the elder, had come 
between them; and now, as the girl stood anxiously 
gazing down the long road, the mother sat eying 
her furtively and keenly while a look on her face 
told of a certain mild perturbation of spirit. In the 
eager gaze of the daughter and the anxiety of the 
mother even the dullest observer could scent an 
incipient love affair; and, in truth, Mrs. Craven 
realized that for the very first time in all her life 
Kate was interested in a man. 

It had all come about so gradually and simply 
and naturally that it was not until Ned Penfield 
and Kate Craven, although not formally engaged, 
had entered into the state known as ‘‘an under- 
standing” that the mother awoke to a bitter realiza- 
tion of what had happened. She had cherished high 
ambitions for her daughter. Secretly she had set 
aside, year after year, a sum of money which was 
now sufficient to enable her to send Kate to Boston 
for a whole year of study, after which she should 
choose whatever calling — nursing, teaching, or type- 
writing — she desired to follow. These occupations 
Mrs. Craven regarded as “fitting” for a self-respect- 
ing woman of decent American parentage. It is 
doubtful if even in her wildest dreams it had oc- 
curred to her that commercial pursuits of all kinds, 
besides such professions as journalism, literature, 
the stage, illustrating, medicine, and music, were now 
4 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


open to just such girls as her own daughter. The 
world had moved on during the long years of her 
quiet life in the little elm-shaded cottage, and she 
had taken but scant heed of its progress. In ad- 
mitting to herself that her daughter might, without 
sacrifice of family dignity or her own self-respect, 
take her place among the toilers of the other sex 
and earn her own living, it seemed to this simple, 
conscience-ridden daughter of the Pilgrims that she 
had almost compromised with the most sacred be- 
liefs and prejudices of her caste. She little knew 
that the yeast of revolt was fermenting in Kate’s 
breast; that her mind, stirred by a course of reading 
that had been wider and more radical and indis- 
criminate than her mother suspected, was now filled 
with inchoate dreams of a ‘‘career,” as she called it; 
that her whole soul had come to loathe the narrow 
life of Graytown and to yearn after something worth 
working for. It would have been a terrible shock 
to Susan Craven could she have known at this time 
— as she did later — that Boston, to whose memory 
she had remained faithful during her long exile from 
New England, had long since been displaced in her 
daughter’s fond imaginings by New York. 

The mother had never spoken of the little fund 
that she had accumulated by Heaven alone knows 
what acts of parsimony and sacrifice; but now, as 
she watched her daughter entering from the front 
porch, her face beaming with happiness, she felt that 
the time had come to put the money to the use for 
which it had been intended. It might be that a 
change to other scenes and a broader life, with the 
inevitable contact with new ideas and new friends, 
would have its effect. 


5 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Mothers are said to have a quick eye where their 
daughters are concerned, but it sometimes happens 
that through lack of proper perspective they have 
livelier perceptions as to daughters not their own. 
Thus Susan Craven was so completely wrapped up 
in her own child that she had not yet learned that 
the latter’s intimacy with Ned Penfield, taking, as 
it had, the conspicuous form of many long walks 
and drives about the country-side, had long been 
a subject of keen interest and a great deal of com- 
ment, for the most part enviously unflattering, 
among the young women of the town. For Pen- 
field, with his regular features, bold black eyes, and 
“dashing appearance,” as it was commonly termed, 
had made rapid headway in the good graces of the 
gentler and, so far as Graytown goes, the sharper 
sex during the two years in which he had lived and 
worked there. He had come from a larger town, 
and to the glamour of Syracuse was added that of 
his calling in the eyes of some of the more romantic 
and impressionable young women who fancied that 
they saw a future Dickens in this jaunty country 
reporter. 

Kate Craven, more than all the others, had been 
impressed with his accomplishments as a budding 
man of letters. Brought up to read and to hold 
literature and authorship in profound respect, it is 
not strange that she should have been strongly 
attracted by the first writer it had been her fortune 
to know, and she devoured with eagerness every 
local item, editorial, and “news story” that came 
from his pen. It was this frank tribute to his talents 
and profession that first kindled in Penfield’s breast 
that sense of gratified vanity which so closely re- 
6 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


sembles the greatest of all human passions that the 
victim can seldom distinguish between the two. He 
began to talk to her about his work, to invite her 
criticism of the editorials on which he labored so 
zealously — he had high ambitions and dreams of 
his own — and finally to consult her on such matters 
as literary style and the proper use of words. It was 
generally believed in Graytown that Ned Penfield 
thought pretty w’ell of himself and of his ability to 
turn a neat paragraph or wake the echoes of the 
country-side with an able editorial on state politics; 
but he was shrewd enough to recognize Kate Craven’s 
superior literary knowledge and not above taking 
advantage of it. 

In course of time he encouraged her to try her 
hand at writing editorial paragraphs and news 
items, and was amazed at the ease with which she 
put thought and fact into words, culled from what 
seemed to him a boundless vocabulary. Kate had 
been a reader of good literature all her life and had 
unconsciously acquired the habit of expressing her- 
self tersely and in fitting terms, while Penfield, 
whose reading had been confined to newspapers and 
cheap novels, was merely a fluent writer of the 
language that has been aptly called “journalese.” 

Meanwhile, on this bright October day the Weekly 
EagUy owned and conducted by Hiram Pardee, had 
gone to press, and Penfield, its local editor, was free 
for the afternoon. The proprietor himself would, 
according to his invariable custom, take charge of 
the sales and make out the bills for the advertising 
and job printing. 

Penfield, though still diligent in his work, had 
become fascinated by the mirage of metropolitan 
7 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


life that the sensational New York dailies set before 
his eyes each day in such alluring colors, and had 
shrewdly decided that the Eagle offered no oppor- 
tunity worthy of his talents. New York was the 
field for him, and for Kate Craven, too, just so soon 
as a place could be made for her. 

But the New York that Kate saw in her dreams 
was not the city of hard work, fierce rivalry, bitter 
envy, heartbreaking failure, and incredible possibil- 
ities toward which the youth of the whole country 
ever turns its eager, yearning eyes; but the New 
York created by the Sunday supplements of the 
sensational press, a town of easily gotten wealth and 
luxurious living; of picturesque slums in which 
‘‘settlement workers,’’ recruited from the ranks of 
fashion, toil ceaselessly and unselfishly for the poor; 
of a Wall Street inhabited by kings of finance who 
reward the faithful with wealth-producing “tips” 
on the stock-market; of a bright bohemian society 
in which actresses of radiant beauty chat brilliantly 
and unconventionally with artists, musicians, and 
authors of stupendous genius; of an exalted social 
caste composed of four hundred of the noblest and 
wealthiest, given over to elegant revels which the 
hoi polloi are privileged to gaze upon from afar in 
speechless wonder and delight. 

This was the mirage that Kate Craven beheld 
in her dreams, this city of the yellow Sunday supple- 
ment, which she hoped to enter and capture. 

Before leaving the office Penfield selected from 
the heap of exchanges beside his desk the Sunday 
supplement of the New York Megaphone and thrust 
it into his coat pocket. An houi later he was driv- 
ing briskly down Main Street behind one of the 
8 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


showiest livery horses in the town, while the citizens 
to whom he nodded jauntily said to one another, as 
they returned his greetings, ‘‘There’s Ned Penfield 
going to take his girl out buggy-riding.” 

The young editor’s salary was not more than a 
thousand a year, but his position on the press enabled 
him to get the best that the village afforded, and at 
the very smallest outlay of money. In return for 
these commercial favors he was always ready to 
serve those with whom he dealt by alluding in the 
columns of the Eagle to the high quality of their 
wares or their own personal charm. Thus in the 
issue of the day on which we see young Penfield 
starting gaily for the eastern end of the town fully 
a dozen paragraphs bore testimony to his trans- 
actions with his fellow-townsmen. 

“Those oysters at Pat Cuddy’s Exchange are just 
the cheese these cool evenings.” 

“The Mohawk Brewery has been running over- 
time ever since the first of last month, and no won- 
der, when we think of the sort of beer they brew. 
By the way, Jakey Schneider is the boy who knows 
how to keep and serve it.” 

“You’d better call on Charlie Hames early in the 
week if you want to take your lady friend out driv- 
ing Sunday. As a general thing there isn’t a rig 
of any description left in his stable by noon.” 


CHAPTER II 


P ENFIELD found Kate waiting for him at the 
gate of the little cottage, and they drove off 
gaily while Susan Craven watched them through the 
drawn blinds with troubled eyes until a bend in the 
road hid them from view. At the foot of a long 
hill the horse fell into a leisurely walk, and Kate 
unfolded the supplement and buried herself in its 
contents. Suddenly she exclaimed: 

‘‘That’s a great article about Carolyn Smithers’s 
salon. You know who she is — that rich young lady 
who moves in the Four Hundred and is always getting 
up clubs and leading movements of one sort or an- 
other. Now she’s tired of society and is going to 
establish a salon like Madame de StaH’s in her house 
on Madison Avenue, and make it a meeting-place for 
actors, musicians, painters, and the fashionable in- 
tellectual set. And it says that mere wealth will 
not be the passport to Miss Smithers’s salon. Only 
cultivation and artistic reputation. I’m a different 
sort of girl since I began reading these New York 
papers. I never realized before how much is going 
on in the world and what chances there are for women 
to do big things. There’s that big Woman’s Better- 
ment Society! I’ll never be really contented until 
I can have a hand in it myself.” 

“And what’s the Woman’s Betterment Society?” 
inquired Penfield. 


10 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘‘Why, it’s the great organization for improving 
the condition of women, raising their intellectual 
status, giving them opportunities for social advance- 
ment. It’s the biggest thing ever done for our sex, 
and every time I read anything about it I wish I 
were able to help the work along. And that Mrs. 
Chilton-Smythe is a wonder. She’s born right in 
the Four Hundred and is worth millions and millions, 
so she needn’t do anything at all; yet she gives most 
of her time to the Betterment Society, and now it’s 
the most important thing in the whole country. 
By the way, what did you have in the Eagle to-day 
about Sadie Hazelrigg’s elopement?” 

At the mention of this, the great local sensation 
of the week, Penfield’s brow darkened, and he replied, 
sullenly: “The old man wouldn’t let me print more 
than a stickful. If it had been my paper I’d have 
spread it all over the front page.” 

“Ned,” exclaimed Kate, suddenly, “you’re just 
wasting your time in this place! You and I between 
us could get up a wonderful story about Sadie Ha- 
zelrigg and her Dutch coachman. Ever since I’ve 
been going with you I’ve developed what you call 
a nose for news, and I fairly hate to see such an 
opportunity wasted. Oh, if we were only in New 
York now, both of us! Well, we’re not! Which 
way shall we drive?” 

“Let’s go over to Glendale for supper; we’ll have 
moonlight coming back,” said Penfield. 

It was five o’clock when they drew up in front 
of the little old-fashioned tavern whose fame as a 
place of refreshment had served to make the pretty 
village of Glendale the Mecca of pleasure parties 
from every part of the county. The landlord, who 

II 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


had seen a reference to himself in the Eagle as ^‘the 
very prince of bonifaces,” came hurrying out to 
greet them. 

“Well, I declare, Mr. Penfieldl” he exclaimed, in 
professionally hearty and hospitable tones. “ I was 
just saying to my wife this very morning that we 
hadn’t seen you in a month of Sundays, and we was 
wondering whether you was mad or anything, that 
you didn’t show up here no more. Needn’t ask how 
you be, Miss Craven. Your good looks is the best 
answer. Step right in through the back entry, and 
you’ll find my wife up to her elbows in preserves. 
You come along o’ me, Mr. Penfield, and have a 
little nip o’ rye to get the dust out of your throat.” 

“Well, I be glad to see you to-day,” the landlady 
cried, with genuine delight, as Kate entered the 
kitchen. “Sit right down there and don’t stir till 
you’ve told me every mite o’ news you know; and 
what you don’t know, Kitty Craven, ain’t wuth 
knowin’, I guess. But you’d oughter come to me 
long ago to find out about what that Hazelrigg gal 
was up to. Why, they’ve been a-comin’ here to- 
gether this three months or more. I knew what was 
goin’ on ever since last August.” 

To which Kate made answer with an air of intense 
eagerness that went straight to the older woman’s 
heart. “Well, if you know all about it you had 
better tell me, because all I know is what every- 
body knows. Begin right at the beginning, for I’m 
just dying to hear the whole story.” 

Thus conjured, Mrs. Perkins lowered her voice 
to the pitch demanded by revelations of such import 
and mystery as those with which her tongue was 
burdened, and, going back to the moment when she 
iz 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 

herself had first said to her husband that she never 
see Sadie Hazelrigg out driving or walking or riding 
but what that slick-looking coachman was snoopin’ 
round somewheres,” told the whole story of the love 
affair between mistress and servant as she had 
learned it by observation and hearsay. 

‘‘Where do you suppose they’ve gone to?” asked 
Kitty, as Mrs. Perkins paused for breath. 

“They left here for New York; but it’s my opinion 
they’re stopping with his uncle who keeps a road- 
house at a place called Flatbush. I’ve got the ad- 
dress, for once I forwarded some mail to him.” 

At this moment Penfield called to her from the 
parlor, and Kate hastened to join him. 

“I’ve got a scheme for you, Neddy!” she ex- 
claimed. “Take the midnight express to New 
York, and in the morning go to the Megaphone and 
offer to write the whole story of the Hazelrigg case 
for them. I’ve just got it all from Mrs. Perkins, 
and, what’s more, she knows where they’re probably 
stopping. You ought to be able to write something 
that will make New York sit up and stare. You 
would, too, if I were there to help you. I’ll do your 
work while you’re away. With what I can pick 
up myself and you can turn in after you get back 
we’ll have as good a newspaper as you’ve printed in 
a long time.” 

So it was settled that he should start for New York 
that night, leaving his sweetheart to fill his place 
to the best of her ability. 

It was nearly eleven when the buggy stopped be- 
fore the little white cottage. Susan Craven was 
awake and peering through the white-curtained 
window of her bedroom on the ground floor, after 

13 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


the fashion of prudent mothers the world over, as 
Kate walked swiftly up the flagged walk to the 
side-door. And long after her daughter was asleep 
the elder woman remained wide awake, staring into 
the darkness. 

Penfield reached New York at nine in the morn- 
ing, and while ordering his breakfast sent for a 
copy of the Megaphone and was amazed to see nearly 
half a page devoted to the Hazelrigg elopement under 
the caption, “Gone with the Coachman.” Bitterly 
disappointed by this bit of journalistic enterprise, 
his first thought was to return home at once and tell 
Kitty that the metropolitan pace was entirely too 
swift for a country reporter. Then he read the ac- 
count carefully and found that it was a mere rehash 
of his own story in the Eagle telegraphed from Utica, 
to which had been added an exuberant description 
of the exalted status of the bride as a “leading mem- 
ber of the Four Hundred.” The page was further 
embellished with authentic portraits of Miss Hazel- 
rigg and her mother and another of the coachman 
which did not resemble him in any way — ^which is 
not surprising, as it was merely an old likeness of 
the French Prince Imperial with a livery, short side- 
whiskers, and hair brushed in front of his ears. 
There were also pictures of three young men of 
fashion, and a paragraph explaining that they were 
suitors for the young lady’s hand. These had been 
added at the last moment, because it was seen that 
the page did not “balance” and needed more por- 
traits to be thoroughly effective. 

As nothing was printed about the present where- 
abouts of the couple, Penfield took new heart. As 
soon as he had finished his leisurely breakfast he 

14 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


started for Park Row, and, following the directions 
of the hotel clerk, soon found himself walking briskly 
down Fifth Avenue, swinging his cane and gazing 
about him with keen interest and pleasure. He was 
surprised to find the thoroughfare which he had al- 
ways pictured as the abode of exclusive fashion mere- 
ly a street of shops. But the long vista to the north 
and south gave him a sense of the immensity of the 
city, while the animation of the scene, the throngs 
of well-dressed women — many of them, perhaps, 
members of the Four Hundred — the endless pro- 
cessions of carriages, automobiles, and delivery 
wagons, all evidences of money recklessly spent and 
therefore easily earned, appealed powerfully to his 
eager, receptive mind. 

Broadway, into which he turned at Twenty-third 
Street, seemed to him a splendid seat of commerce, 
a distributing-point for merchandise of all kinds. 
Trucks laden with boxes and bales were coming and 
going, and as he glanced down the side-streets he 
could catch glimpses of porters loading and unload- 
ing them. Through the plate-glass windows of the 
huge wholesale stores he could see shelves and 
counters covered with rolls of cloth and cases of hats, 
bonnets, feathers, artificial flowers — everything, in 
short, that could be worn by man, woman, or child. 
The very signs over the doors seemed so bright, new, 
and rich in gold-leaf that they inspired him with 
hope, and it was a positive stimulus to his thoughts 
to note the sharp, eager faces of the salesmen who 
stood just inside the glass doors and even prowled 
up and down the sidewalk on the keen lookout for 
their natural prey, the out-of-town customer. 

All unknowing, Edward Penfield absorbed during 

15 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


his long walk down-town something of the spirit and 
flavor of the city in which he was destined to live 
and work. Knowing nothing of the history of the 
town, the sight of the gilt signs bearing names for 
the most part unknown in American commerce a 
dozen years before gave him none of that sense of 
gloom that they inspire in the hearts of those whose 
memories carry them back to the times when the old 
merchants, whose lives had been bound up in the 
growth of the city, dominated this very street — the 
days when rusty old signs bearing honored Anglo- 
Saxon names hung above these doors. Penfield 
liked new gilt signs because they glittered in the 
sunlight; nor was he hampered by memories of the 
past or respect for tradition. Essentially a man of 
the present, he was well qualified for a place in Park 
Row, where the cry is always for fresh young brains 
free from memories and traditions. 


CHAPTER III 


CAR down-town as we reckon nowadays in New 
A York, yet within gun-shot of the building which 
within the memory of those now living contained 
the most important retail dry -goods shop of the 
town, is the wind-swept, crowded, hideously noisy 
and clanging street where wires come together from 
all parts of the world, and the work never ceases 
throughout the twenty-four hours of the day and 
the seven days of the week; a street that knows no 
seventh day or Sabbath in which it is unlawful to 
do any manner of work. 

It is a street that is not without its influence, for 
it is here that the news of the world is brought in 
in innumerable streams along countless wires, treated 
by skilled mechanics called editors, and then dis- 
seminated in printed form throughout the land. 
Here also the dreams and ambitions of thousands 
of the youth of the country center, for they see in it 
the opportunity for careers of importance. 

Behind the buildings and at their flanks are nar- 
row streets choked with wagons and shaken by the 
constant jar of mighty machinery at work in cavern- 
ous depths below, whence clouds of steam come forth 
in fitful gusts through sidewalk gratings, where rag- 
ged urchins huddle together on cold nights for 
warmth and companionship. 

It did not take Penfield long to find the building 

17 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


for which he was looking. It breaks the sky-line of 
Park Row many stories above its immediate neigh- 
bors, an imposing monument to the zeal, ambition, 
and abilities of three generations of proprietors. For 
the New York Daily Megaphone is owned by Gaston 
Barshfield, son of Simon of the same surname and 
grandson of the world-famous Abraham, first of the 
line and founder of the extraordinary newspaper 
that still bears the imprint of his peculiar genius, 
though its character has been altered to suit the 
present feverish times. On the Megaphone premises 
Barshfield rules with the firm hand of an absolute 
but well-meaning monarch. His employees speak of 
him as the ‘‘great white Czar,’’ and of his own pri- 
vate office as the throne-room. Like all sovereigns 
who rule by divine right, he is obliged to delegate 
much of his authority to his privy councilors. 

The first Barshfield had been a firm believer in 
humanity, and had reposed implicit confidence in 
every subordinate whom he regarded with favor. 
His son and successor had believed in himself abso- 
lutely, to a moderate extent in the people, and in 
his employees not at all. Gaston, the present wearer 
of the crown, believes in neither the public nor his 
employees, and does not even regard himself seri- 
ously. It was he who called the newspaper offices 
of Park Row cook-shops, and likened the news to 
the contents of a kitchen pot, a simile apt enough 
to become immortal. 

The first of the dynasty of Barshfield led public 
opinion; the second — a far more successful ruler 
than his father — kept abreast of it; the third and 
greatest of them all follows it slavishly as a dog fol- 
lows his master. But he does it in such a way as 

i8 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


to convince his readers that he is actually influencing 
them, and, as he generally succeeds in agreeing with 
'the majority of them, they are ready enough to con- 
cede his power and sagacity. 

The young reporter could not have chosen a more 
auspicious time for his arrival in Park Row. It was 
not only the turning-point in his own career, but the 
psychological moment in the history of the Mega- 
phone. 

The Daily Megaphone and its present proprietor 
are so closely associated in the public mind that in 
speaking of either one always thinks of both. To 
arrive at any real understanding of Gaston Barsh- 
field, and the newspaper which is generally regarded 
as the concrete expression of his complex personality, 
we must consider the methods of his European up- 
bringing. 

None knew better than Simon Barshfield, second 
in the royal line, the importance of the position 
which would be his son’s by inheritance; none knew 
better than he the arts that would be employed to 
influence him in the conduct of his journal. From 
his own earliest childhood he had been accustomed 
to the idea of journalistic power by seeing the throngs 
of politicians, financiers, philanthropists, actors, sing- 
ers, and women of society who were for ever dog- 
ging his father’s footsteps. And these had paid 
their court to the son as well as to the father, for 
all the world as if the lad had been a young prince 
whose reign might begin at any moment. It was 
from influences of this sort that the second Barshfield 
desired to save his son, and it was mainly on this 
account that he determined to keep him abroad 
until his education was completed. The persons 

3 19 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


whose wiles he most feared were his own employees, 
the members of the staff of the Megaphone, for he 
knew well enough that if a man skilled in that cun- 
ning and strategy which are found in the highest 
state of perfection only in a New York newspaper 
office once obtained the mastery of a comparatively 
young and inexperienced heir, it might be years 
before he would be strong enough to shake him off. 

As Simon Barshfield made no secret of his own 
lack of confidence in the men whom he was com- 
pelled to intrust with the management of his affairs 
and the handling of his money, it is not to be won- 
dered at that his son should have grown up in the 
belief that personal integrity was such a rare quality 
that it did not pay to hunt for it, and that it was 
much better to follow his father’s example and seek 
only for men of ability without expecting to get any 
loyalty or honesty except of the merchantable kind. 

Gaston Barshfield addresses the public precisely 
as a well-bred, agreeably cynical man of years, ex- 
perience, and travel might be expected to address any 
woman who seemed worth his while. And where is 
the man of this sort who ever credited the feminine 
mind with reason.? The Megaphone might be in- 
tended for feminine circulation only, so neat is its 
personal appearance, so bright and entertaining its 
columns, so full of gossip about society, the stage, 
fashions, and everything else that man regards as 
dear to the feminine heart. And with what delicious 
art does it set before its readers every detail of the 
most salacious scandals of the town! How grieved 
it is at the stern necessity that compels it to touch 
a topic so unsavory, one that must prove so revolt- 
ing to the pure-minded! The Megaphone never 
20 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


prints a scandal on its front page. Nor would a 
man of tact say to a woman in a crowded drawing- 
room all that he has to say to her. There are 
some things that he will save for the quiet of the 
tete-a-tete — things that will lose nothing by the 
saving. 

Barshfield knows but one god, and his name is 
Circulation. As the sun - worshiper in the early 
morning turns reverently toward the east, so does 
Barshfield on arising from his bed call up his cir- 
culation manager on the telephone and ask how the 
paper is selling. During those periods of peaceful 
quiet and order — rare enough in the current life of 
the town — when citizens are going about their 
business without being held up or murdered, and 
when there are no scandals or crime mysteries to 
occupy the public mind, he loses something of his 
native evenness of temper and becomes melancholy, 
and at times even morose. It is then that he declares 
that the daily brew is not to the public’s liking and 
that if some rich seasoning be not added they might 
as well shut up the cook-shop altogether. These 
are anxious days for the members of the staff. While 
the angel of peace is flapping his wings over the town, 
and the devout are giving thanks because neither 
pestilence nor ‘‘crime wave” is abroad, the employees 
of the Megaphone, from the highest to the lowest, are 
suffering the full weight of the royal displeasure. 
It is then that the city-room echoes with rumors of 
impending changes — rumors that frequently prove 
stern realities. It is then that the chief cooks hurry 
to and fro with nervous tread, shouting at the office- 
boys, summoning reporters, and sending them away 
on mysterious and often useless missions, and com- 
21 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


muning together in a studied effort to impress their 
employer with their zeal. 

But as a thunder-storm clears the atmosphere on 
a close summer day, so does crime, scandal, or dis- 
aster restore the low pulse of circulation, raise the 
drooping spirits of the sovereign, dispel gloom from 
the hearts of his immediate entourage, quicken the 
activities of the city-room, and turn the talk of the 
‘‘ old-timers back to its usual channels of golden 
reminiscence. 

It would be difficult to say what form of iniquity 
or horror gives the owner of the Megaphone the most 
pleasure or the circulation its strongest uplift. A 
flood or fire enables him to send out a relief-train in 
charge of a ‘‘heart interest’’ specialist, whose duty 
it is to distribute the various things contributed by 
those charitable persons who are not averse to seeing 
themselves in print, and to chronicle in fitting terms 
the tearful gratitude of the recipients. An embez- 
zlement or divorce is also welcome in periods of de- 
pression, because it can be converted into a “daily 
feature,” as Park Row terms a long-drawn-out agony. 
A murder or mysterious disappearance is also highly 
prized, but a local “ crime wave,” cleverly nursed by 
experts, will do as much to revive the drooping sales 
as anything that can be named. 

It was in honor of this god of Circulation, whom 
he worships to the exclusion of all others — even that 
of Advertising, before whose altar so many news- 
paper proprietors prostrate themselves — that the 
third Barshfield erected the splendid temple on 
Park Row in which the Megaphone is housed, and 
fitted it with all the best and latest appliances for 
the collection, dissemination, and distortion of news 
2 ? 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


and its conversion into the great mirage that is 
visible from afar. 

A whole floor of this building is given over to the 
city department, and another to the editorial rooms. 
On the floor above, Tops, the dean of the corps of 
office-boys, keeps ceaseless watch and ward at the 
door of the handsomely furnished room in which 
Majesty itself is enthroned. In this room are held 
the high councils, and it is here that audience is 
sometimes granted to the faithful. To this room 
only a very few of the most favored courtiers have 
ready access, and these fortunate ones seem to the 
rank and file of the city department to wear upon 
their brows some of the reflected glory of their 
sovereign. 

Every day at precisely twelve o’clock. Tops, the 
ranking member of the office-boy corps, the House- 
hold troops of Park Row, stations himself before 
the door of the throne-room, there to await the com- 
ing of royalty. Tidings of the royal advent spread 
quickly throughout the building, and are made 
known not only by the prompt doubling of the 
guard of office-boys, but by the hurry and bustle 
among the courtiers and the excitement that stirs the 
ranks of those who have been waiting in the outer 
hall in the hope of being ushered into the presence. 

At the time of which I write there are but two for 
whom the doors of the throne-room swing freely. 
One of these is Vanderlip, the managing editor; the 
other is Macy, the city editor. It is believed in the 
city-room that they are mutually hostile to and jeal- 
ous of each other, and that by cunningly dividing 
his confidence and favor between the two Barshfield 
maintains the balance of power in the statecraft of 

23 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


the office. It is believed, also, that each one re- 
ceives the same prodigious salary, the exact amount 
of which can only be guessed at, as the grave does 
not guard its secrets more carefully than does the 
Park Row cashier those of his salary list. 

Macy owes his position to his skill as a news- 
gatherer. Not only is he thoroughly familiar with 
every one of the regular sources of news supply, but 
he also possesses an extraordinary knowledge of the 
peculiar qualities of every one of the herbs and fungi 
of sensationalism that attain such a luxuriant growth 
in metropolitan highways and byways. He knows 
also the many out-of-the-way places in which these 
things are to be found at all seasons of the year, and 
it is this knowledge more than anything else that has 
served to endear him to his employer, for the latter 
knows well that in a moment of emergency he can 
always depend on Macy to send out and procure 
some morsel of scandal or gossip in precisely the 
right stage of decay, that with a little judicious par- 
boiling can be made to lend to the pot the necessary 
rich taste. 

And as Macy excels in the art of gathering in- 
gredients for the pot, so does Vanderlip understand 
that of cooking them to suit the taste of his em- 
ployer and presumably that of the public as well. 
His judgment of the relative value of the different 
lumps of sensation that figure in each morning’s 
brew is unsurpassed. In assigning one to a con- 
spicuous place on the front page and relegating an- 
other in condensed form to an obscure corner under 
the little -read column called “Religious Intelli- 
gence,” he has never been known to err. He has a 
masterly skill in imparting to the entire contents of 
24 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


the pot that rich, gamy flavor that his public finds 
so palatable. In brief, it is Macy who collects the 
news and Vanderlip who prepares it for consumption. 

With his interests guarded by two such able and 
zealous counselors, both mutually distrustful of 
each other, yet each unswerving in his allegiance to 
his chief, Barshfield’s lot among newspaper pro- 
prietors might well be regarded as an enviable one; 
yet at the very moment of Penfield's arrival in town 
a vague feeling of discontent is forming in his mind. 
Things are running so smoothly in the Megaphone 
office that he cannot rid himself of the suspicion 
that something is wrong. It is some weeks since 
Macy has hinted that Vanderlip’s hand has lost 
much of its old-time cunning, or Vanderlip has re- 
luctantly admitted that Macy is “his own worst 
enemy.^’ 

In such moments of peace it is Barshfield’s prac- 
tice to prepare for war, and so it happens that at 
the very moment when he is casting a speculative 
eye over the members of his staff Ned Penfield 
comes knocking at his gates. 


CHAPTER IV 


T he city editor, to whom an office-boy bore Pen- 
field’s card, consented to receive him, and in- 
quired rather brusquely what he could do for him. 
He thawed out when the visitor explained his er- 
rand, remarking that he thought he knew where to 
find the eloping couple, and adding that he was 
acquainted with both bride and bridegroom. 

“Go ahead and find them,” said Macy, “and give 
us a two-column story about them. We’re all at 
sea here, because no one on the staff knows them 
by sight. Don’t lose any time about it, either, for 
every paper in town has at least three men out on 
it now, and I want to get an exclusive story if it’s 
a possible thing. Get a move on you, and have your 
copy in as early as you can.” 

Penfield turned to go, and Macy followed him to 
the hall to offer a few final words of advice and en- 
couragement, finishing with the suggestion that he 
take a cab; and it was with the injunction to “make 
a big story with plenty of heart interest in it” ring- 
ing in his ears that Ned Penfield scurried down the 
Megaphone stairs and ran rapidly along Park Row 
to the bridge entrance. He knew that the work 
that had been intrusted to him was important, but 
he was not sufficiently familiar with Park Row and 
the habits of city editors to grasp the full signifi- 
cance of Mr. Macy’s injunction to “take a cab.” 
26 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


When a seasoned reporter is told to indulge in such 
an extravagance his heart sinks within him, because 
he knows not only that the assignment is regarded 
as a very difficult one, but also that if he comes back 
and admits himself baffled the cab will be thrown 
in his face, and the city editor will wonder how it is 
possible that a man who is permitted to draw upon 
the office treasury to the extent of two dollars for 
luxurious travel can fail to get the information that 
he seeks. In other words, the city editor bestows 
the cab as the Spartan mother bestowed the shield: 
‘‘Come home with it or on it,’^ 

Not far from the eastern entrance to Prospect 
Park Penfield found the road - house. The half- 
dozen tubs of evergreens that stood in the glazed 
end of the piazza showed that the place was kept 
by a German. The bar-room was almost empty 
when he entered, and he knew by the sound of clat- 
tering knives and forks that dinner was going on 
in an adjoining room. Having purchased a cigar, 
he strolled out on the piazza, and as he passed the 
dining-room window he cast a searching glance at 
the company within, and there beheld Sadie Hazel- 
rigg, that was, seated beside her coachman husband, 
with the German publican at one end of the table 
and his stout wife at the other. 

For fully ten minutes Edward Penfield continued 
his walk up and down the broad piazza of the little 
roadside hotel, making up his mind what was the 
best course to pursue, and realizing more keenly 
than he ever had before how necessary Kitty Craven 
had become to him. 

“If Kitty were here now,’’ he said to himself, 
“she would know exactly what I ought to do, and 
27 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


this may be the very turning-point in my whole 
career/’ 

At this point in his reflections the supper party 
broke up, the two women withdrawing to their rooms 
on the upper floor, while the men passed into the 
bar-room. A moment later Penfield heard the front 
door slam and saw the coachman, with a long cigar 
between his teeth, walking briskly along the piazza. 
As the two men approached each other the bride- 
groom stopped, open-eyed with astonishment, while 
the reporter advanced with a pleasant smile of rec- 
ognition on his face and exclaimed: 

‘‘Well, how do you do, Fritz.? You went away 
from Graytown so suddenly that I didn’t have time 
to congratulate you. I wish you all the joy in the 
world, old man.” 

The German extended a rather reluctant hand 
and replied simply: “You don’t bring much notice 
in the Eagle about us. Why was that.? Did you 
see the Megaphone to-day? A whole page already; 
but that picture of me is not right, and my wife 
looks so ugly. Is there no way I could make them 
bring a good picture? I was ashamed to send that 
paper to my sister in Germany. And those dudes, 
why did they put them there.? My wife swears 
that she never knew one of them, though I choked 
her to make her tell. Do you know one of those 
editors on that Megaphone paper.? I would call 
on him and even let the artist make a picture 
of me.” 

Here, indeed, was a golden opportunity, and it 
did not take long for Penfield to persuade the bride- 
groom — ^who was tasting for the first time in his 
life the delicious intoxicant of newspaper notoriety 
28 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


— to go with him to the Megaphone office. In the 
city-room he found Mr. Macy, whose face literally 
beamed with joy when Penfield introduced the 
coachman and the latter began his querulous com- 
plaint about the picture. For once in a city 
editor’s lifetime a reporter had gone out in a cab 
and come back with something. 

Mr. Macy himself escorted the German to the art 
department and commanded one of the artists to 
make a full-length picture of him. 

‘‘And don’t put hairs before my ears, as in the 
picture you brought this morning,” pleaded the 
bridegroom, as he assumed a dignified pose, with his 
hand resting negligently on the table. 

Meanwhile another artist, working from descrip- 
tions furnished by Penfield, was making a picture 
of the road-house in which the elopers were hidden, 
while a third prepared portraits of the innkeeper and 
his wife. 

“Say, Dutchy, what sort of a looking party is 
that aunt of yours?” inquired the last-named, as 
he briskly sharpened his pencil. 

“She is quite a stout lady mit gold spectacles, 
and curls beside her face, and a large bosom pin 
mit a picture of her fader on it. Her hair is dark, 
and don’t forget to put gold spectacles.” 

“All right,” replied the draftsman, cheerfully, 
“I’ll make a mark so the man who puts the colors 
on will know.” And with these words he selected 
from a large drawer in his desk the portrait of a 
well-known Philadelphia dowager, added a pair of 
side-curls of the old-fashioned variety to her face, 
and placed broad-bowed spectacles on her nose. The 
bosom pin was quickly drawn, and a few moments 
29 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


later the portrait of an absconding bank-cashier 
was transformed into the German innkeeper, and 
his nationality delicately indicated by means of a 
long porcelain pipe, carefully traced from the Flie- 
gende Blatter, and a mug of foaming beer. 

Having seen that the art hands were in train to 
do their worst, Macy escorted Penfield to a desk in 
the city-room and bade him write as much as he 
possibly could about his search and the discovery 
of the couple. 

“Describe the Dutch hotel and compare it with 
her father’s house up in the country. What you 
want to show is that this girl comes of a gilt-edged 
family, and has been brought up by doting parents to 
have everything she hollered for. Give her plenty 
of sealskin sacques and diamonds, and work the 
Four Hundred racket. Then show what she’s come 
to. Describe the family sitting down at the supper- 
table, and don’t forget the sauerkraut and the steam- 
ing frankfurters. After supper she puts on an apron 
and washes the dishes, singing merrily at her work. 
In the morning when her husband goes out to hunt 
for a job she kisses him good-by and says, ‘Hans’ 
or ‘Fritz,’ or whatever the hell his name is, ‘do 
not be discouraged if you fail again to-day, for I 
still love you.’ Be sure and make her happy, be- 
cause if you don’t there won’t be any heart interest 
in the story. Have her singing and smiling all the 
time she’s peeling potatoes. It would be a good idea 
to have her sit down at the parlor organ in the even- 
ing, after the business of the day is over, and touch 
the simple hearts of the good old innkeeper and his 
wife by singing some hellish yodels that carry them 
back to the happy days on the vine-clad slopes of 
30 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


the Rhine. And all the time make her happy. 
Do you understand.?” 

‘‘Indeed, I do,” replied Penfield, as he took up 
his pen, for he knew now that he was on safe ground 
and that his reporter’s sense would carry him 
through. 

Edward Penfield was what city editors call a 
“born reporter,” a term generally used to character- 
ize that peculiar blend of ignorance and enthusiasm 
which can be found in its finest flower in the offices 
about Park Row. Without any real literary skill save 
the coarsest, he had a certain sense of the value of 
contrasts which enabled him to make his effects in 
a broad and striking manner. Now, having been 
started on the right track by Mr. Macy, he threw 
himself into the work of describing the Hazelrigg 
elopement with a zeal that soon ripened into genuine 
pleasure. 

When Macy reached the office next day he found 
Penfield waiting for him. The young man wasted no 
time in stating his wish to go to work regularly on 
the Megaphone. 

“Well,” said the city editor, after a moment’s 
thought, “I’m willing to give you a try on the 
strength of what you’ve done. You can go to work 
on space, with a guarantee of thirty-five dollars a 
week.” 

It seemed to Edward Penfield that he had sud- 
denly planted his feet on the highway that led tow- 
ard wealth and distinction, and without a moment’s 
demur he accepted the offer, asking only to be al- 
lowed to go up to Gray town and arrange his affairs 
there. 

He surprised Kate by appearing before her early 
3 ? 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


one Sunday morning, and when he had announced 
his intention of joining the staff of the Megaphone 
she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, 
thus giving him a more complete as well as an in- 
finitely more delightful surprise than he had given 
her, for Kate was chary of such favors. 

“And now the next thing is to get you down 
there,” he said, as he seated himself beside her and 
took her hand in his. “Fve simply got to have you, 
Kitty; that’s all there is about it! Will you come.?” 

“Yes,” she said, tentatively, for it seemed to her 
that he might have been a little more explicit in his 
manner of asking; “I’d give anything to go down 
to New York and see what I can make of myself.” 

“And so you shall, Kitty, if I can possibly do it!” 
he exclaimed, earnestly and with real sincerity, for 
he was thinking of how she might help him. That 
he could be expected to make her any definite offer 
or promise of an intimate personal nature did not 
enter his mind. The knowledge that she cared for 
no one save himself left him free to devote his atten- 
tion exclusively to his own affairs. There would be 
time enough for a closer union in the future — if he 
cared for it. And Kate, regretting now that she 
had kissed him so fervently, or perhaps disappointed 
that her sudden yielding to an affectionate prompting 
had met with such a careless response, assumed her 
usual attitude of an interested and wisely counseling 
listener as he unfolded, in words glowing with hope 
and enthusiasm, his plans for what he called his 
“journalistic career.” 

Mrs. Craven was surprised and greatly relieved 
to see how contentedly and pleasantly Kate fell back 
into the old routine after Penfield’s departure. To 

32 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


all outward appearances the girl had taken up her 
old life of simple domesticity with complete satis- 
faction and was prepared to live it out until the end. 
It was possible, of course, that in due time she would 
marry, but this event Susan Craven hoped would be 
deferred as long as possible. Certainly there was 
no young man in Graytown whom she could tolerate, 
even in imagination, as a son-in-law. 

But if Susan Craven could have looked into her 
daughter’s soul and seen how completely the dream 
of a ‘‘life-work” in New York had taken possession 
of her, and the manner in which she was already 
planning and working for its realization, it is doubt- 
ful if she would have been satisfied to enjoy her sense 
of security. Her maternal instinct led her to believe 
that Kate was not in love with Penfield or any other 
man to a dangerous degree, but she never realized 
that the girl was in love with an idea. 

Meanwhile old man Pardee was finding it difficult 
to break in a new local editor, and was glad to take 
two or three columns of local gossip and editorial 
matter from Kate, for which he allowed her the sum 
of ten dollars a week, half of which she gave to her 
mother for household expenses. The remainder she 
laid aside for future use. For the dream of a metro- 
politan career had taken complete possession of her 
soul. 

It was in this spirit of adventure, and not through 
any interest in the affairs of her neighbors, that she 
threw herself into the work on the Eagle with a zeal 
and discretion that won the grudging approval of 
Hiram Pardee, and went far toward upsetting his 
ingrained belief that women “didn’t belong” in 
newspaper offices. Moreover, she had already 
33 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


reached the conclusion that the profession of writing 
offered more advantages and opportunities than any 
other, as it was one in which women were on terms of 
equality with men. It was one, too, for which she 
had been trained in a way by her lifelong habit of 
reading; nor did the possibility of one day wielding 
an influential pen in behalf of her sex escape her 
mind. 

And all this time she was in constant correspond- 
ence with Ned Penfield. Her mother suspected it, 
but asked no questions, though there were times 
when she yearned for her daughter’s full and com- 
plete confidence, such as had been hers until this 
country reporter came between them. It would have 
greatly relieved Mrs. Craven’s mind could she have 
read one of those long, closely written letters that 
reached the Graytown post-office by the Monday- 
morning mail or the still longer ones that Kate was 
wont to send in reply. There was very little love- 
making in the pages of either. Penfield’s were con- 
fined principally to accounts of his work on the 
paper coupled with appeals to Kate for advice and 
aid. Whenever time allowed he sent her his Sun- 
day stories in manuscript, asking her to criticize and 
suggest improvements. These she would read and 
return with such memoranda as her fertile feminine 
instinct and imagination might suggest, and he never 
failed to profit by her counsel. 

That this young country girl, entirely inexperi- 
enced in city ways, could offer valuable advice to a 
clever newspaper reporter who was rapidly making 
his way in New York may seem inexplicable. But 
it should be remembered that she had been such a 
diligent reader of Sunday supplements that she 
34 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


had come to view everything from the peculiar 
standpoint of Park Row. Moreover, she was fast 
acquiring proficiency in the art of imparting to Pen- 
field’s manuscripts those fine feminine touches which, 
although neither of them knew it, appealed so power- 
fully to Barshfield’s erratic fancy. 

Indeed, one of the pet theories of the Megaphone’s 
owner was that only through the combined efforts 
of a man and a woman could the best results in 
newspaper writing be achieved. On occasions of 
importance he always ordered that a man should 
write the story from the “news point” and a wom- 
an supply the emotional and sentimental element 
termed “heart interest.” 

It was the frequent touches of womanliness in 
Penfield’s work that attracted Barshfield’s notice 
and at the same time surprised him, for femininity 
seemed entirely foreign to this energetic brassy 
young provincial who stopped at nothing that his 
duty to the paper called for. Sometimes, it is true, 
this womanly element was absent when it was most 
needed and when Barshfield fully expected to find 
it. But give Penfield time — time enough to send 
his manuscript to Kate for revision — and he was 
sure to turn in something flavored with precisely 
the quality that suited the palate of the Megaphone’s 
proprietor. 


4 


CHAPTER V 


L ate in the afternoon of one of those hazy 
autumn days that serve to endear early Novem- 
ber to us, a sudden murmur and bustle about the 
throne-room of the Megaphone indicated to the 
knowing ones the arrival of royalty. By a quick 
requisition on the household reserves in the city- 
room, the guard before the door was doubled, as 
became the situation, and in a few moments messen- 
gers were scurrying in every direction, and Tops 
was bustling in and out in response to the sharp calls 
of the royal bell. 

It is the custom in Park Row to denote the pres- 
ence of royalty by exhibitions of activity accom- 
panied by suggestions of unspeakable mystery on 
the part of those having access to the Presence or 
attached to the Person of Majesty. Tops knows 
this so well that at the first sound of the royal bell 
he always rings for two district messengers before 
calling out the guard. Even if there is no immediate 
demand for their services it lends to the occasion 
an air of life and color, besides producing a favorable 
impression on those waiting in the hall, to have the 
uniformed boys coming and going and leaning 
against the walls. 

There were fully a score of waiting ones this hazy 
afternoon, and it was on that account, perhaps, that 
Barshfield did not pass through the crowded hall, 
3b 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


but made his way to his own office through a chain 
of others. 

“Get rid of them as soon as possible/’ he said to 
Tops, without even glancing at the cards that that 
diligent officer offered for his inspection. Where- 
upon the obedient Tops went out into the corridor 
and addressed the assembled multitude, saying that 
Mr. Barshfield was very busy to-day with a very 
important party which had come all the way from 
Asia to see him about some extra particular busi- 
ness, and he (Tops) didn’t think he’d be able to see 
anybody till to-morrow. A moment later he was in 
quest of Mr. Macy, whose presence was desired in 
the throne-room immediately. 

Barshfield was retasting the morning’s brew with 
wise and critical palate when the city editor entered 
the office. He must have found it to his liking, for 
he looked up from his desk and said, with a cordial 
smile: 

“A pretty good paper this morning, Mr. Macy, 
considering the fact that you had scarcely anything 
to work on. I must say, though, that I don’t care 
very much for that evicted family as a daily feature. 
It strikes me as a little too commonplace for us. 
There’s nothing in an eviction unless it has some 
original feature that we can work on. You’d better 
let them go with perhaps a half-column story about 
their gratitude to the Megaphone ” 

“But the story has a special feature,” replied the 
city editor. “I’ve just learned that the property is 
owned by old Cornelius Ruggles, who’s rich as mud 
and a vestryman of a swell church up-town. You 
may remember that we ran a three-column picture 
of him about six weeks ago at the time he gave a 
37 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


quarter of a million to some hospital or some- 
thing/^ 

‘‘So that’s the cruel landlord, is it?” exclaimed 
Barshfield, with a visible increase of interest. “That 
is something to work on. Let’s see; how does the 
story stand now? Are they still out in the street.?” 

“Yes,” retorted Macy, laconically; “out on the 
sidewalk with their stuff, and they’re to sleep .on it 
so long as we keep them full of beer.” 

“That’s good,” said Barshfield, approvingly, as 
he offered his case of gold-tipped cigarettes and 
lighted one himself. “Make a half-page story of it 
for Sunday with a picture of them sitting on their 
pots and pans, the father with his head buried in 
his hands, the old woman telling her beads, and all 
the children — ” 

“There’s only one child,” interrupted Macy. 

“One isn’t enough for a story like this!” exclaimed 
Barshfield, decisively. “Make a lot of them with 
hollow faces like those young ones in the pictures 
of the striking weavers’ families that we ran last 
week. Surely, Mr. Macy, you’ve been on the 
Megaphone long enough to know what a starving 
family looks like!” 

“I know what they look like in the Megaphone; 
they all look alike there,” rejoined Macy, dryly. 
“They all have precisely the same children, too,” 
he added. “Don’t you think we could fit this one 
out with a new set?” 

“No,” rejoined Barshfield, gravely; “the public 
have become attached to these children and would 
resent any attempt to palm off any new ones on 
them. Run the same old group and give it a good 
religious caption like ‘the poor ye have always with 
3B 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


ye,’ and then have another picture showing Ruggles 
walking down the aisle of the church with a silk hat 
in his hand and a sanctimonious look on his face. 
A good caption for that would be ‘by their fruits 
ye shall know them.’ Anyway, take something out 
of the Bible and don’t forget to have the old woman 
going over her string of beads. If she hasn’t got 
any give her some, because the family must stand 
for everything that we print about them. They 
understand that, don’t they?” 

“Oh, they’ll stand for it as long as we keep them 
in beer and take up subscriptions for them,” said 
Macy, with a smile of amusement on his face. 
“They’re the envy of the whole neighborhood as it 
is. But I don’t think the oublic will quite stand for 
a string of beads.” 

“Why not?” demanded Barshfield. 

“Because,” replied the city editor, “their name 
is Rosenthal.” 

Macy’s smile found itself reflected in the face of 
the proprietor of the Megaphone, who, by no means 
deficient in the sense of humor, made answer: 

“Well, let them display some sort of religious 
emblem. It always gives tone to extreme destitu- 
tion to show a cross or a string of beads or something 
of that sort. By the way, the story this morning 
was uncommonly well done. Who’s out on it?” 

“A man named Penfield. This is his first job in 
New York. I’m told he had quite a local reputation 
up the state. It was he that did that elopement 
story for us last fall.” 

“You say he was a country reporter before he 
came to us?” remarked Barshfield, thoughtfully. 
“Well, I’ve always Relieved that a man who could 
39 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


make any sort of reputation on one of those little 
country weeklies could do big things on a New York 
daily.” 

As a matter of fact, Barshfield had been quietly 
watching Penfield’s work ever since his attention 
had been drawn to it by his masterly account of the 
Hazelrigg elopement the year before. He had noted 
his growing capacity for reportorial work of the 
highest order — or what passed for the highest order 
in the Megaphone office — and had already reached 
the conclusion that this raw young country reporter 
had in him the stuff from which good city editors 
are made. Of this he had said not a word to either 
of his two favorite henchmen, knowing only too well 
that they were ready to make common cause against 
any one whom he regarded with special favor or 
interest. 

At nine o’clock that same evening Penfield, re- 
turning from an assignment, was told by the city 
editor that Mr. Vanderlip wished to see him. Greatly 
marveling, he made his way into the private office 
of the privy councilor. Mr. Vanderlip was sitting 
before his superb mahogany roll-top desk with a 
cigarette in his mouth and a proof-slip in his hand. 

‘‘You are the Mr. Penfield who has been handling 
that eviction story he said, in a tone that was at 
least reassuring. “Now, we want to make a big 
story on it in the Sunday paper, with pictures of the 
capitalist going to church while his poor tenants 
starve in the streets. Make anywhere from two 
and a half to three columns — enough to make a page 
story with pictures — and be sure you lay it on thick 
about the church end of it, taking care not to offend 
the religious element.” 


40 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“How are we to avoid offending them if we pound 
hard on the church part of it?’’ he inquired. 

“Treat it from a high moral standpoint,” replied 
Vanderlip, quickly. “Interview clergymen of dif- 
ferent denominations and get them to stand for some 
sort of an expression of righteous indignation at the 
hypocrisy of a man who, while professing piety, 
turns a deaf ear to the wailings of the distressed. 
Turn your story in to me instead of to Mr. Macy, 
and have it here as early to-morrow evening as you 
possibly can.” 

Without further delay Penfield started out in 
search of ecclesiastical indorsement of the Mega- 
phone^ s noble humanitarianism in succoring the un- 
fortunate victims of capitalistic tyranny. He carried 
in his pocket the typewritten list of clergymen who 
liked to get their names in the paper, which was one 
of the properties of the city-room, and his first call 
was on the Rev. Henry Westmoreton, D.D., who 
received him with much cordiality and offered him 
a cigar before proceeding to business. He listened 
with the closest attention while his visitor told his 
story, but at the mention of the landlord’s name he 
started and exclaimed. 

“What! You don’t mean Mr. Ruggles, the phi- 
lanthropist, do you?” 

“I believe that’s the one, sir,” replied Penfield. 
“That is to say, he gives to hospitals and asylums, 
but if you were to see this unfortunate family sitting 
out on the street among their household effects I 
don’t think you’d call him a philanthropist. Why, 
sir, it is one of the saddest sights the town has ever 
seen, and with it all they’re so quiet and prayerful.” 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to let me off this time, 

41 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


young man/' said Dr. Westmoreton, in a soft, sad 
voice and with a deprecatory smile on his face. 
“You see, it doesn’t quite do for a clergyman to be 
too harsh in his criticisms of others. This Mr. Rug- 
gles, you know, belongs to another church, and” — 
his voice grew firmer as he clutched at the straw 
that had providentially floated his way — “if I were 
to go out of my way to attack him for his business 
methods a great many censorious persons might say 
that I did it because he was not of my own religious 
belief. Now, during all my twenty-five years in the 
ministry I have been noted for my liberality toward 
other denominations, and about a year ago I actually 
preached a sermon in praise of the Jews. No, my 
dear young friend, I would much rather indorse 
something else, and I am sure that your employer, 
whom I have the pleasure of knowing slightly and 
who seems to be a man of extraordinary diligence in 
well-doing, will very soon embark on some crusade 
which I could indorse more heartily than I can this. 
Please say that to Mr. Barshfield, with my compli- 
ments, won’t you, my dear Mr. Penfield,and ask him, 
in view of the very embarrassing position in which it 
would place me, to excuse me this time. I am very 
glad to have seen you — take another of these cigars 
to smoke on your way down — and I should like very 
much to see you at our Friday-evening services, 
which are designed especially for young people of 
both sexes. They begin at eight and last till about 
a quarter past nine, and if you’d like to step into 
the vestry afterward, just to say ‘how-dy-do’ and 
have a little chat, I should be very glad to see you.” 
And with these gracious words the rector courteously 
bowed his visitor out. 


4 ^ 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘‘I guess ril take an easy one this time,” said Pen- 
field, as he stood on the rectory steps scanning the 
typewritten list of divines; and straightway he betook 
himself to the house of the Rev. Eleazur Simpson, 
a clerical “hustler” of the most advanced type. As 
soon as Mr. Simpson discovered that his visitor was 
a reporter and not an alms-seeker he invited him 
into his study and listened with a look of eager ap- 
proval on his face while Penfield unfolded his tale 
of the persecution of the poor by the rich. Mr. 
Simpson was a young man of limitless fervor and 
short stature, who stood so straight that in nautical 
parlance he may be said to have “raked aft.” He 
had pale-blue eyes, a large mouth, and straggling, 
reddish side-whiskers of the kind that so frequently 
go cheek by jowl with agile piety. He had been a 
firm believer in vigorous methods from the moment 
of his installation as pastor of a small and struggling 
church, and during his four years’ ministry both his 
fame and his congregation had increased to a note- 
worthy degree. Mr. Simpson owed a large share of 
his popularity and renown to his skill in choosing 
subjects of current interest as themes for his ser- 
mons. He was also a veritable adept in the envia- 
ble art of getting his sermons reported in the daily 
papers, and it was his habit to preach at least once 
a year a sermon in praise of that beneficent institu- 
tion, the modern Sunday newspaper, which he de- 
clared was the “people’s pulpit”; and this bit of 
alliteration was invariably copied and favorably 
commented upon by a grateful profession. 

Floating about somewhere in Mr. Simpson’s head 
were various odds and ends of socialistic theories 
which he regarded with favor because they were cer- 
43 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


tainly ‘^up to date/’ as he would have expressed it, 
and were useful as an occasional flavoring to some 
sermon on the ‘‘Lesson of the Great Strike” or the 
“Volcano Under the City’s Crust.” As he listened 
to his visitor’s account of the eviction of the Rosen- 
thal family he saw his opportunity for a discourse 
that the Megaphone would certainly describe in its 
Monday issue as a “fearless handling of a momen- 
tous question.” 

In the language of both press and pulpit, to 
“handle a subject fearlessly” means to treat it in 
such a way as to tickle everybody’s vanity. 

“I am very much obliged to you, sir, for calling 
my attention to this most unchristian act on the 
part of a man whose sincerity I have already had 
reason to question.” (Mr. Ruggles had refused 
point-blank to give anything to Mr. Simpson’s 
church.) “You can say to Mr. Barshfield that his 
crusade in the interest of true humanity has my 
hearty sympathy, and that I shall take pains to 
refer to the subject in my sermon next Sunday. 
Indeed, I think it would be a good idea if the Mega- 
phone were to send a shorthand reporter to take down 
my discourse, or, better still, I can send you per- 
sonally on Saturday morning a typewritten copy of 
those portions of it that bear on the subject. Let 
me see; there are about eighteen hundred words in 
one of your columns, I believe. Suppose I send you 
two thousand, and that, with your own introduction, 
will make a good column and a half; or even more, 
if you see fit.” 

“I may quote you, then, as sympathizing heartily 
with our efforts to alleviate suffering?” said Penfield, 
as he rose to go. 


44 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘‘Certainly/’ rejoined the clergyman; “and re- 
member that I preach on the subject next Sunday. 
Don’t forget to put that in. Have you seen my 
latest photograph.? You might as well take it with 
you; it will come in handy, perhaps, in reporting 
me next Monday. Good day, sir, and God bless you 
for the great work you are doing for humanity.” 

Penfield’s next call was on the Rev. Horace Brit- 
tain, a slender, hollow-cheeked man in rigid clerical 
attire, whose face and manner betokened the most 
intense earnestness. Mr. Brittain was the rector of 
a church which had gained some fame in the news- 
papers because of its ritualistic tendencies, and for 
this reason alone his name had been added to the 
list of clergymen in the city department. Penfield 
had not addressed more than a score of words to 
him before he stopped him peremptorily: 

“You may say to the proprietor of the Megaphone 
that under no condition will I permit the use of my 
name for the furtherance of any of his outrageous 
projects. He forgets when he sends to me that my 
church has a mission on the very street in which 
this eviction occurred, and that no one knows better 
than I do the evils that result from the contemptible 
schemes for self-advertisement which he has the 
audacity to palm olF on the public as works of 
charity. And you may say to him also that I know 
of nothing more harmful than these attempts to 
stir up the poor against the rich. Now, sir, you have 
my answer. And I will add that I am sorry to see 
a young man of your apparent intelligence engaged 
in such an unwholesome work. I have the honor 
to wish you good day, sir.” 

And the Rev. Horace Brittain stood up to his full 
45 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


height, looked his visitor straight in the face with 
eyes that seemed to blaze with indignation, and 
even caused the latter to feel a little ashamed of 
himself and his work as he made his way into the 
street. 

“There’s a crank that don’t belong on the list,” 
said Penfield, as he made a mark against the name 
of the Rev. Horace Brittain. “I’ll tell Macy to 
scratch it off so as to save the boys as much shoe- 
leather as possible.” 

Penfield’s last call was on a well-known Park Row 
character called “Father Rooney,” whom he found 
late in the day in his accustomed corner of Park 
Row’s favorite public house, known as the Brasserie 
of Hard Times. Rooney belonged to the great 
army of unattached scavengers who gain a precarious 
living through the odd bits of fat and carrion which 
they pick up here and there and sell to the Park Row 
cook-shops. On the strength of having once been 
a minister, and being always willing to talk on any 
subject and express any shade of opinion that might 
be desired, he usually figured in interviews as a 
“liberal Christian.” In cook-shop parlance, a broad- 
minded man is one who is ready to believe anything, 
while a liberal man is simply liberal in speech. He 
does not have to give away anything to acquire that 
distinction. A wise church had long since unfrocked 
Father Rooney, but had never been able to “silence” 
him. 

Rooney not only agreed to write out at space 
rates an interview with himself, expressive of his 
abhorrence at the iniquitous work of the capitalist, 
but suggested that it would be a good idea to have 
him put on the clerical garb which he still wore on 
46 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


occasion and go up to the afflicted Rosenthals with 
a basket of provisions on his arm, for which he stip- 
ulated he should have an extra “five -spot/’ A 
photographer should be on hand, and he had no 
objection to kneeling on the pavement and offering 
a short prayer. He was sure that would make a 
fine picture — “the worthy parish priest praying for 
the unfortunate Hebrews.” 

The idea appealed strongly to Penfield’s sense of 
smell or “news instinct,” as it is termed in Park Row 
kitchens. It was also thoroughly in keeping with 
the “broad-minded” scheme of well-doing that had 
always formed such an important element in Barsh- 
field’s policy. 

“But what would you pray for?” he inquired of 
Rooney. 

“What the hell difference does that make?” re- 
joined the other. “The camera can’t hear.” 

The eviction story containing the interviews with 
distinguished clergymen and the affecting picture of 
Rooney kneeling on the sidewalk, his head bared 
and his voice apparently lifted in prayer, was a 
huge success and caused Penfield to rise several 
pegs in his employer’s estimation. A few days later 
a new odor arose from some fetid corner of the 
earth and filled the public nostrils to such an extent 
that Barshfield gave orders to run no more eviction 
stories, and the Rosenthals, finding their source of 
income cut off, dropped out of sight, to be seen no 
more. 


CHAPTER VI 


T he fires that blaze beneath the caldrons of 
the cook-shops of Park Row are fed with hu- 
man brains, and it is easy to comprehend the force 
of the simile — ^which is one of Barshfield’s own, of 
course — ^when we have seen some of the burnt-out 
embers, for the mental powers do not last long when 
exposed to the fierce heat of those relentless furnace 
fires. You can find these burnt-out embers at al- 
most any hour of the night clustered about the big 
grated door at the entrance of the city-room peering 
in with anxious eyes at the toilers under the hard 
electric lights, and envying their ability to earn a 
decent livelihood. Now and then they sell to some 
friendly city editor a “tip’’ on something that can 
be made to yield a special or exclusive story, and 
on these occasions it is not necessary to go far to 
spend the proceeds to excellent and speedy ad- 
vantage. 

The “Brasserie of Hard Times,” as some Park 
Row Parisian has called a certain place of refresh- 
ment much frequented by lost souls and despond- 
ent ones, is fitted up with little stalls after the fash- 
ion of the oyster-houses of an elder day, and these 
serve as convenient places of reunion for those whose 
hair has whitened and whose eyes have grown dim 
before the furnace bars. 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


There are others who slake their thirst at this 
Brasserie, but its regular clientele is made up largely 
from the ranks of the unfortunates of Park Row, 
the burnt-out embers from the kitchen fires. Many 
of the habitues of the place appear regularly every 
afternoon at about three and remain until long past 
midnight, drinking as frequently as they are asked 
to, and chatting eagerly with their fellows about 
every imaginable phase of life, customs, and finance 
in Park Row. They know the pay-day of every 
office. They know the writer of every story that 
achieves a twenty-four hours’ fame in the newspaper 
quarter of the town, and a change of city editors 
will set them buzzing and chattering together as 
excitedly as if vast interests of their own were at 
stake in the transfer of power. Their knowledge of 
the ever-shifting sands of influence or ‘‘pull,” over 
which so many are trying to walk with unsteady 
feet, their thorough familiarity with the supposed 
likes and dislikes of the different editors and with 
the entire chronique scandaleuse of Park Row are 
little short of marvelous when we consider the fact 
that it is years since they have been regularly em- 
ployed in a newspaper office. Nor are they liberal 
customers of the publican whose saloon affords 
them shelter and warmth, and at whose polished 
counter they enjoy the hospitality of their friends 
and chance acquaintances. Indeed, their own con- 
tributions to his till are so small and infrequent 
that it is not easy for the uninitiated to comprehend 
why they are permitted to occupy so many of the 
best tables for so many hours at a time. And yet 
that saloon-keeper has grown rich from the custom 
of these unfortunates, and there are among them 
49 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


many whose proud boast it is that they never spend 
a cent in the place. 

To me there is, nothing in the whole town more 
pitiful than a group of these prematurely aged men 
huddled together about a table on which the glasses 
are sadly in need of refilling, their whitened heads 
almost touching as they talk over their prospects for 
the future — meaning the remainder of the week, for 
they seldom look further ahead than that — and live 
over again the golden, never-to-be-forgotten days 
when their brains were young and burned with a 
clear, steady flame before the furnace bars. 

There are some, I believe, who can find food for 
mirth in such a spectacle as this; but I never see 
one of these unfortunates whom a few years of ser- 
vice in that awful furnace heat have served to trans- 
form from a ‘‘star” of the city-room into a dead 
ember, for whom life holds nothing but an alcove 
in the Brasserie of Hard Times, without a feeling 
of pity and admiration. They certainly look ad- 
versity in the face with rare courage and cheery 
mien, these gray ashes of an irrevocable past, and 
are far more ready to assume airs of easy-going 
affluence, which would be comical if they were not 
pathetic, than to bewail their ill fortune. And every 
one of them can look back to a period in his career 
when, in the idiom of Park Row, “it was a cold 
week that I didn’t knock out my little ninety-odd 
dollars.” That is the precise sum that is always 
employed by the frequenters of the Brasserie of 
Hard Times to indicate material prosperity. 

News always filters quickly when it takes a down- 
ward course, and nowhere more rapidly than in Park 
Row, and so it happened that on the evening after 
SO 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


the disappearance of the evicted Rosenthals from 
the Megaphone's pages two of the ‘‘old-timers,” as 
embers are considerately termed by their younger 
fellow-craftsmen, were sitting in their accustomed 
nook in the Brasserie of Hard Times waiting for 
some Samaritan to come in, when they were joined 
by a third who dropped into a vacant chair with the 
jovial greeting, “Well, boys, what’s up?” 

“Everything’s moving along nicely in about the 
same old groove,” replied one of the old-timers, in 
the cheerful tones habitual with those who do not 
know where their next meal is coming from. “Any- 
thing new with you, Charley?” he continued, for 
poor old Charley White, who had not had a regular 
job of any description in six years, nevertheless con- 
trived to keep so closely in touch with the little 
world in which he was at one time a person of no 
small importance that the Brasserie always looked 
to him as one likely to prove the bearer of tidings 
of the very latest happenings. 

“There’s not much new anywhere that I know of 
except in the Megaphone office,” said White, slowly, 
and with an air of mystery that had its immediate 
effect on his hearers. “But what I heard I’m not 
at liberty to speak of at present — certainly not until 
there are some further developments. You haven’t 
heard anything about any probable changes over 
there, have you?” 

“No,” they had heard nothing; nor had Dan Far- 
ley, who was appealed to as he was passing by; and 
Dan was well equipped for news-gathering that after- 
noon, having just drawn his week’s pay from the 
Megaphone treasury. He was not above learning, 
however, so he seated himself at the table with the 

5 51 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


others, and, under the influence of a very welcome 
glass of whisky, Charley White declared to his 
round-eyed hearers that the ‘‘old man’’ was so well 
pleased with the way in which the eviction story 
had been handled that he had sent in to get the 
name of the reporter who did it, and the talk was 
that he would be put on the assistant night city 
desk at once and then shoved right along. 

“And who is it that’s doing the story?” inquired 
Dan, eagerly. 

“Penfield was the name I heard,” replied Charley, 
setting down his empty glass and looking at it so 
ruefully that Dan, who always had a warm corner 
in his heart for those old comrades in arms who had 
fallen wounded or exhausted by the wayside, bade 
him cheer up and ordered another round of drinks. 

“He’s not one of the right sort, that man Pen- 
field,” said one of the old-timers. “The boys have 
been onto him from the start. They say he’s just 
waiting for a chance to play the sneak for what the 
old man will give him for it.” 

The Brasserie always hears of things before they 
happen. 

At that very moment Penfield was seated at his 
desk in the city-room writing a letter to Kate 
Craven. He wrote her regularly once a week — long 
letters full of himself, his life in New York, his work 
on the paper, and the swift advance of his fortunes. 

“Although I have been here just a year, I am be- 
ginning to feel at home in New York, though of 
course I am not nearly as big a toad in this huge 
metropolitan puddle as I was in Graytown, where 
everybody knew the local editor of the Eagle. But 
I’m making more than three times as much money — 
52 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


my string was just eighty-seven dollars and fifty 
cents this week — and, what’s more, I’m getting a 
firm grip on things. But I’ve found out one thing, 
and that is that a man who makes good in a New 
York office has got a hard fight on his hands. If 
he’s got a good job he can be pretty sure that there’ll 
be forty people trying to get him out of it; but I 
don’t intend to let any of them do me up. I don’t 
quite see my way yet to getting you on the paper — ” 

At this moment a voice at his elbow said: ‘‘Mr. 
Barshfield would like to see you in his office right 
away, Mr. Penfield,” and he looked up to find Tops 
standing beside him and speaking in a tone of marked 
respect, as if he saw already on the reporter’s brow 
some gleam of the great white light that beats upon 
a Park Row throne. 

Penfield rubbed his eyes as if he had suddenly 
been awakened from a deep sleep. Indeed, he had 
often in his day-dreams pictured just such a sum- 
mons from the throne-room and wondered what 
good fortune it would lead to. Mechanically he 
arose, thrust his half-finished letter into his pocket, 
and followed Tops to the private office of his chief. 

“Sit down,” said Barshfield, smiling pleasantly 
as he rose to shake hands with his visitor. “Mr. 
Vanderlip and I think” — Penfield now noticed that 
the managing editor was seated beside him — “that 
you are just the man we want to take charge of a 
new page we’re starting. I want to put all the 
woman and home stuff in it, a column of art notes 
twice a week, and on the other days literary and 
musical paragraphs. That will leave us about two 
columns which I should like to have filled with short 
stories, humorous or pathetic, made up from the 
53 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


news of the day. Some of these you can write your- 
self, and the rest you must get from the city staflF. 
I’m going to put Mrs. Grimmond in charge of the 
woman’s part, and we ought to have another woman 
to help her and also to do some of the local heart- 
interest stories. Very likely Mrs. Grimmond will 
have somebody in mind. You can talk it over with 
her.” 

Penfield left the royal presence with his mind in 
a whirl. But his cunning did not desert him, for 
he contrived to tell Mrs. Grimmond, who had been 
picking up a meager living by means of fashion stories 
signed ‘‘ Lady Clara Vere de Vere,” that it was he 
who had induced Barshfield to place her on the 
salary list. This was the first news she had received 
of her good fortune, and she wept with joy and 
swore eternal fealty to her preserver — poor, simple, 
generous soul that she was. 

At a late hour that night Penfield resumed the 
letter that he had been writing to Kate. 

‘‘Just at the point of this break I was interrupted 
by a summons to Mr. Barshfield’s office — a summons 
that is likely to prove of supreme importance to 
both of us, for he has put me in charge of a new 
page, and I have made a place on it for you at 
thirty-five dollars a week to begin on, with the 
chance of a raise if everything goes well. Come 
down just as soon as ever you can, for I need you 
more than ever.” 

In saying that he needed Kate Craven he voiced 
a feeling that was always uppermost in his heart. 
Not only was she his only real friend, but a needful 
one as well. He appreciated the healing balm of 
her counsel in times of doubt, for he realized that 
54 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


during all the period of their intimacy she had never 
given him a word of bad advice. Moreover, he felt 
that he needed some friend in the office on whom 
he could rely in case of need. Too much engrossed 
in his work to have any time to spare for conviviality 
and idle amusement, he had made no friends in the 
city-room, and, as we have seen already, his asso- 
ciates in the office rather held aloof from him as a 
man not quite to be trusted. 

When Kate Craven came to the end of Penfield’s 
eight- page letter she found herself walking slowly 
down Main Street with her heart beating very fast 
and her mind busy with the question, “What will 
mother say?’’ 

Not until after their supper had been eaten and 
the dishes washed and put away did Kate make 
known the import of Penfield’s letter. To her great 
surprise, the elder woman listened without a word of 
comment or a sign of emotion, her face calm and 
her eyes cast down on her knitting, and it was fully 
a minute after her daughter had finished speaking 
before she answered: 

“I made up my mind long ago that something of 
this sort was bound to happen; but I don’t like it, 
and I don’t see the necessity for it.” 

“But, mother, darling!” cried Kate; “you surely 
don’t expect me to spend the rest of my days in a 
place like Graytown, do you?” 

“And why not. I’d like to know?” rejoined Susan 
Craven, and the monotonous clicking of the needles 
ceased abruptly as she looked her daughter firmly 
in the eyes and went on: “Your father and I lived 
in this town and others very much like it all our 
lives, and, although we never had very many luxuries, 
55 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


I can’t see but what the Lord gave us about as much 
happiness, health, and contentment of spirit as He did 
to most folks. And I never once thought, and your 
father never thought, either, that there was any more 
happiness to be found in a big city than in a little 
village. What’s got into all the young people these 
late years I don’t know; but nothing will do for 
them except city life and city ways. It was a relief 
to my mind when that Ned Penfield went away, but 
now it seems you must up and follow him. What is 
he to you, anyway, Kate Craven? Has he ever 
asked you to marry him same as a young man ought 
to ask the girl he’s courted?” 

“No, not in so many words,” Kate admitted. 

“And you propose to pack up and chase after him 
down to New York without so much as a word out 
of his lips that binds him to do the right thing by 
you? How do you know he’s got a place for you 
on that paper? Kate, if I didn’t know that you were 
a good girl and high-principled, and with a head on 
your shoulders. I’d not let you go so long as I had 
the strength to prevent it. Well, I suppose I might 
as well give in first as last; but don’t you put too 
much trust in that Penfield young man. I never 
saw a man yet with those dead-black eyes that was 
fit to be trusted out of sight. And, besides, I never 
more than half liked his feet.” 

Generally speaking, the woman who possesses an 
assortment of sterling qualities and the many in- 
grained prejudices which always cling to them is a 
confirmed “nagger.” This Mrs. Craven was not, 
and now, having freed her mind of the subject, she 
said no more. 

At last the day came when Kate said good-by to 

56 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


her dry-eyed mother and, with her ticket and a little 
more than a hundred dollars saved from her Eagle 
earnings in her purse, took a seat in the day-coach 
that was to bear her to the great city. 

Her mother went with her to the train to see her 
olF on her journey, and her last words as she kissed 
her good-by were: ‘‘Be careful, my daughter, about 
the friends you make, for it is by them that you will 
be judged. Beware of bad men and loose women. 
They’re never to be depended on. Try and make 
some good woman your friend — it’s better that she 
should be good than clever — and with her to depend 
on you’ll be reasonably safe.” 

And these words of caution Kate had good reason 
to recall later in her career. 


CHAPTER VII 


T he train started with a jolt that brought 
forcibly into Kate’s mind the thought that she 
had cut loose for ever from the home in which she 
had been reared; from her mother, the only constant 
companion she had ever known; and from the little 
town whose narrowness and provincialism she had 
long outgrown in an imagination quickened and en- 
riched by dreams of city life. As she caught a last 
glimpse of her mother’s face and saw in it the look 
of sad, anxious brooding she realized that the step 
she had taken was irrevocable; and now, for the first 
time, serious doubt cast its shadow over her high 
spirits. Suppose, as her mother had more than 
once suggested, Ned Penfield should fail to prove 
the disinterested, loyal friend he had always pro- 
fessed to be? Resolutely she put the thought from 
her mind as one unworthy of her. She had pinned 
her full faith to him, and he alone had power to 
shake her confidence, for it is in that way that the 
blind trust. 

The train increased its speed, the village of Gray- 
town was soon left behind, and New York, with all 
its glorious possibilities of adventure and success, 
loomed up larger and nearer in the young girl’s vision. 
The valley of the Mohawk was rich in its gorgeous 
autumnal foliage; the river sparkled in the clear, 
crisp sunlight; great fields of stacked corn inter- 
58 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


spersed with bright yellow pumpkins flashed by; 
but to-day the peaceful charm of the lovely country 
had no appeal to an imagination that was steeped 
in dreams of far more exciting things. Even the 
memory of her mother’s sad, anxious face was grow- 
ing dim as she thought of this wonderful world that 
the Sunday Megaphone had created for her, and of 
which she had read in other and more pretentious 
schools of fiction. 

All her life Kate Craven had known two separate 
and distinct worlds — the smaller one of Graytown 
and the larger one that lay behind the glass doors 
of the old mahogany bookcase to which she had 
turned with eagerness during the many hours of 
leisure that her simple home duties afforded. She 
could lose herself in the London of Dickens, in the 
Mayfair of Thackeray, in Mrs. Gaskelfs peaceful 
village, or on the desert island of Robinson Crusoe. 
Along with her hard common-sense she had inher- 
ited from some mystic-loving New England fore- 
bear a quick imagination, and it was through this 
that she had been able to escape at times from the 
dreary routine of parochial life and so reach the age 
of twenty-two without becoming morbid or discon- 
tented. 

The Sunday Megaphone had thrown open to her 
still another world far more alluring than any of 
those into which she had previously entered, and 
one, too, that was no less a creation of the human 
fancy. This was the realm of the sensational Sun- 
day supplement, the great mirage that so many 
mistake for the real world of New York. As seen 
by those who draw their knowledge from the same 
treasure-house of mendacity that had enriched Kate’s 
59 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


mind, the metropolis is a city of wonderful contrasts, 
populated by the very rich, the very poor, the very 
wise and the very dull, the very good and the very 
bad. The lines that divide these various extremes 
are so sharply drawn that there can be no mistake 
in regard to the quality of the company that the 
stranger keeps. 

This world was alluring to Kate because she could 
imagine herself as a part of it. She could never 
know Becky Sharp, or Tiny Tim, or man Friday; 
but she was now actually on the threshold of a real 
world that was quite as fascinating as any that she 
had read about and one whose doors would perhaps 
fly open at her touch. 

Then her thoughts took on a shade of sadness, 
for she well knew that New York was a good place 
for the rich but not for the poor. She had heard 
this said so many times that she firmly believed it. 
Had not her neighbor, Lida Scarrett, who always 
spent at least two of the winter months in a New 
York boarding-house, told her repeatedly that she’d 
like to live there if she had a million dollars, but that 
it was no place for the poor.? And did not the Sun- 
day supplements constantly exploit the doings of 
the wealthy, their automobiles and diamonds and 
yachts and private cars; their country houses, opera 
boxes, and splendid parties ? She had seen pictures 
of some of those houses, and Lida Scarrett had de- 
scribed to her the magnificence of more than one 
wedding that she had viewed from the sidewalk. 
What a marvelous power money was, to be sure! 
To what a world of joy and splendid revelry did it 
hold the key! Alas, not for her were those delirious 
joys. At best she could but stand with Lida Scar- 
60 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


rett and gaze from afar off. But, after all, even that 
would be a dream and a delight, for the present at 
least. It saddened her, however, to know that New 
York was no place for the poor. 

She must make money — she and Ned together — 
there was no doubt of that. But how? Wall 
Street should be the field of their operations. It was 
there that the ‘‘captains of industry’’ and the vari- 
ous “kings,” “barons,” and “Napoleons” of com- 
merce transacted business in sums that ran well up 
into the millions. Its pavements must be of solid 
gold. How would it be possible, even for a young 
man as clever as Ned Penfield, to gain a foothold in 
such a wonderful place ? 

Vaguely she formed a mental picture of this 
millionaire society as it must exist on upper Fifth 
Avenue. There were the kings of finance and com- 
merce — uncrowned, of course, but none the less 
haughty and imposing. There were their wives, 
each one with a lorgnette on her nose through which 
she gazed upon the world with an air of insolent de- 
fiance. There were the sons, all “club men,” 
debonair, cynical, and with fateful power over 
women. There were the daughters, the “belles of 
Murray Hill,” beautiful and brilliant and capable 
of almost any eccentricity. There was plate of solid 
gold, and furniture and hangings such as might have 
been found in the palace of the Queen of Sheba. 
Permeating all this wealth and luxury, this mad riot 
of yachts, automobiles, feasting, and drinking, was 
the keenest joy of living. It was impossible for this 
young girl, brought up under the rule of penurious 
domestic economy, to imagine those care-free people 
as anything but happy and contented. She had seen 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


pictures of some of the great houses on Fifth Avenue, 
and could not imagine financial anxiety or despond- 
ency or unhappiness of any sort — certainly not dis- 
content — finding lodgment within their walls. The 
marital troubles, the divorces and elopements of 
which she had read from time to time were only a 
result of the general scheme of reckless enjoyment. 

In sad contrast to this region of perpetual joy was 
the “East Side,” where vice, poverty, and misery 
stalked hand in hand. She had seen in the Mega- 
phone unforgettable pictures of gaunt, famine-stricken 
working-men with their starving, ragged wives and 
children, and she had learned from the same reliable 
source that the population in that part of the town 
was in the last stages of hunger and destitution. It 
was here that the “starving millions” eked out a 
miserable existence. 

Swiftly the train sped on, yet to her impatient 
young spirit it seemed to crawl. She was thinking 
now of Miss Smithers and of the Sunday- night 
gatherings of wit, genius, and beauty that set the 
seal of distinction on her drawing-room. She could 
conjure up that scene of brilliant animation. Dark- 
eyed Italian singers, warbling the lays of their native 
land in voices that were the envy of the operatic 
world; famous actors reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy; 
violinists of international renown distilling exquisite 
music from the strings of costly Stradivarians; beau- 
tiful women discussing the madness of Ophelia with 
the most famous actresses in the land and dazzling 
them with the revelations of their own mental ac- 
complishments; artists wearing velvet suits and 
bearing portfolios containing specimens of their 
wares; editors of influential dailies conversing with 
62 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


members of the Woman’s Betterment Society and 
absorbing from them ennobling ideas to be employed 
later in the great work of molding public opinion. 
And, moving to and fro amidst this notable com- 
pany, she saw Miss Smithers herself, her face, recon- 
structed in imagination from countless newspaper 
pictures, alive with gracious feelings and intellectual 
emotions. 

But the phase of metropolitan life that enchained 
her attention more than any other was that of which 
she had the least knowledge, although her fancy had 
often run riot in painting it. The ‘'Gay White Way,” 
the region of a thousand and one delights, had taken 
a strong hold on her imagination. Its very wicked- 
ness made it fascinating to her. Without any de- 
sire to take part in its mad revels, she nevertheless 
longed to see for herself precisely what they were 
like. There were even moments when she regretted 
that she had been born a woman, so greatly did she 
envy the men who could plunge into that garden of 
enchantment and drink their fill at its fountains of 
joy. 

In her mind she saw the great street ablaze with 
electric lights; she heard the strains of countless 
bands, the clink of wine-glasses, the shouts of mad 
laughter. Life, love, music, feasting, and dancing 
combined to make this part of the town the bright- 
est, gayest, wickedest corner of the entire continent. 
There was another and a darker side to the picture — 
the maidens annually sacrificed to keep up these 
splendid saturnalia. The hope of saving some of 
these would justify her own excursions into this 
land of mystery and joy. That was the only gate- 
way through which a girl like herself might enter 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


this territory and still remain undefiled. In her 
heart she felt that she would be thankful for the 
opportunity. 

Nevertheless she shuddered as she permitted her 
mind to dwell on the dangers that beset the foot- 
steps of innocent young women who trod the streets 
of the miraculous city. Revelations .of the “white 
slave’’ atrocities had stirred her to indignation, and 
she firmly believed that young girls were frequently 
seized on the sidewalks of Fifth Avenue or even torn 
from their parents’ arms and carried off into in- 
famous bondage. 

Curiously enough, her mind contained no pictures 
of the New York of average means. She saw only 
the two extremes of poverty and wealth. Of the 
fairly well-to-do, of the hard-working, self-respect- 
ing poor, of the newly arrived immigrants, of the 
long-settled Germans, Hungarians, Bohemians, Irish, 
and other foreigners, of the wisely prosperous Jews, 
of the small shop-keeping class and the struggling 
professional men and women who form fully three- 
quarters of the city’s population she knew absolute- 
ly nothing. Of the working-members of her own 
sex she had heard only of those who in some way or 
other had contrived to project themselves into 
print. A few of these were actresses or writers. 
But those of real importance in her eyes were the 
ones who headed “movements,” or whose names 
appeared on the committees that were busy in re- 
forming the city and promoting the welfare of their 
less fortunate sisters. She had no conception of the 
immense number of women of the younger genera- 
tion who were toiling cheerfully in the many fields 
of industry that the city offers, supporting them- 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


selves, and in many cases others of their blood, with 
a heroism that is all the more admirable because of 
their physical disability. Nor had she any con- 
ception of the happiness and well-being that these 
modestly courageous ones found in their toil. 

Still dreaming, she watched the sun go down and 
saw the lights shining from the houses and the stars 
peeping from the clear sky. It was dark when the 
first of the glowing street-lamps and the scattered 
blocks of houses told her that she had reached the 
outer gates of the city of her dreams. Soon she 
would be treading its busy streets and taking part 
in its myriad industries and pleasures. 

It was a beautiful mirage that presented itself to 
her mental gaze, and it was fated that she should 
live a long time in the town that already seemed so 
real to her without even suspecting that it was not 
the real New York. As to the manner of her awaken- 
ing — but we are getting ahead of our story. 

A slight stirring among the passengers in the car 
told her that they were near their journey’s end, and 
she thrust her head far out of the window in the hope 
of catching a glimpse of the city of her dreams. Far 
off* she beheld a great glare in the sky, the reflection 
of countless electric lights, the splendid halo that 
hung over the wonderful town of immeasurable 
wealth and starving millions, of brilliant men and 
women and vast ‘‘movements,” of a life of marvel- 
ous contrasts and opportunities, of which, before 
the setting of another sun, she was to be a part. 

Penfield was waiting as the train drew into the 
station, and although he did not offer to kiss her — 
she had been wondering on the way whether he 
would or no — it was quite plain that he was more 
6S 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


than glad to see her. After all, there was such a big 
crowd there, and it was better to begin her career 
without giving any one cause to ‘‘make remarks” — 
that bugaboo of village life. 

Ten minutes later they were seated at a small 
table in an inconspicuous restaurant, and he was 
ordering what seemed to her a most elaborate meal. 
And as he talked to the waiter with the easy assur- 
ance of an accomplished gourmand^ she was struck 
with the great change in his manner, appearance, 
language, and even facial expression. His clothes 
were new and of distinctly urban cut, and he wore 
a ruby scarf-pin that she had never seen before. 
His face and figure were somewhat fuller now, and 
there was a certain note of self-complacency and 
condescension in his manner of speaking to her that 
she did not altogether like. 

“There’s one thing I want to explain to you,” he 
said, as soon as the waiter had departed, “and that 
is that you and I are supposed to be total strangers 
in Park Row. Of course, we’ll meet now and then 
on the quiet; but in the office you mustn’t let on 
that you ever heard of me before.” 

“Why, Neddy!” she exclaimed, dolefully. “I 
thought it was to be just the same here between 
you and me that it was at home. Aren’t you glad 
to see me? And do you suppose I would even have 
dared to come to New York unless you were here 
to stand by me till I found a footing?” 

“My dear Kitty,” he said, soothingly, “of course 
I’m glad to see you and glad you’ve come — more glad 
than you’ve any idea of— but I don’t want to have 
anybody suspect that we’re friends or that it was 
through me that you got your job. Nobody must 
66 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


know that, or it will make a great difference with 
both of us. But we’ll pull together, all the same, 
and you can be worth all the more to me because 
nobody knows.” 

“But surely,” said Kate, “somebody must know 
about it. You must have asked somebody to 
take me — Mr. Barshfield or Mr. Macy or some- 
body?” 

“Not at all,” rejoined the young journalist, with 
a chuckle that indicated his appreciation of his own 
diplomacy. “When you’ve once been drawn into 
office politics you learn how to play the game with- 
out laying your cards on the table. It was Lady 
Clara, who edits our woman’s page, that got you 
the place — of course, at my private request — and 
she’s asked you to stay with her till you get set- 
tled. Your trunk’s on its way there now.” 

“Do you mean that woman who writes all those 
foolish things about lovers and how to feed canaries 
over the name of Lady Clara Vere de Vere? I must 
say I don’t hanker after her acquaintance.” 

“Oh, she’s all right!” replied Penfield, reassuring- 
ly, “the best-hearted old thing in the business. I 
put it up to her to name you for the job, and she 
couldn’t very well refuse, as she thinks that she owes 
her place to me. Now, it’s up to her to coach you 
so you’ll be a credit to her. I can tell you one 
thing, young lady, and that is you’re lucky enough 
to have Lady Clara anxious to keep you instead of 
sitting up nights framing some excuse for getting 
you off the paper and putting a friend of her own 
on your desk.” 

“I suppose it’s all right, Neddy, but I don’t like 
the deceit and mystery of it,” said Kate, ruefully. 

6 67 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“Mustn’t I speak to you when we meet in the office 
or on the street?” 

“Why, we’re sure to meet in the course of business 
inside of a day or two, and we can let our acquaint- 
ance date from that. Oh, you’ll make plenty of 
friends among the women in the office — I wouldn’t 
have too much to do with the men if I were you — 
and you’ll be so busy you won’t have time to get 
lonely; so eat your dinner and be thankful you’ve 
got me to push you along. And the more you know 
about office politics the more thankful you’ll be to 
me for fixing things this way.” 

“I wish you’d tell me just what you mean by 
office politics,” said Kate, as the waiter changed 
their plates. She had been thinking, with feelings 
of distrust and uneasiness, about all that he had told 
her, and her naturally frank and honest soul recoiled 
from even the slight form of deception that was 
required of her. She realized, too, that in all her 
dreams of New York her sweetheart — if such he 
could be called — had had a part, and now, before 
she had even begun her duties, she was told that she 
must be practically alone. 

“Office politics,” replied Penfield, after a moment 
of solemn deliberation, “is trying to hold your own 
job and get a better one while at the same time you 
see to it that no one else gets too strong in the office. 
Now we’ll go down to Lady Clara’s.” 

For a moment Kate Craven wondered whether it 
could be possible that in bringing her to the city 
Ned Penfield could have had his own interests at 
heart rather than hers. Then she dismissed the 
idea as one unworthy of her and an injustice to 
the kind friend to whom she owed so much, and 
68 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


whose life was perhaps to be for ever bound up with 
her own. 

Penfield summoned a cab with a lordly air, and 
as they turned into a quiet side- street he put his 
arm about her waist and drew her so close to him 
that he could feel the pressure of her full, rounded 
breast against his side. She lifted up her face to 
him, and he kissed her on the forehead and then on 
the lips with a passion that was new to her, and 
which brought a sudden flush to her cheeks as she 
drew away from him, murmuring: 

‘‘Don’t, Neddy, please; you mustn’t! Remem- 
ber, we’re not engaged!” 

“Kate, dear,” he said, still holding her close to 
him in the darkness of the cab, “you’re the pret- 
tiest thing I’ve seen since I left Graytown, and I’ve 
missed you more than you can ever know. I love 
you, dear — ever so much.” 

And these words, which were the most lover-like 
that had ever fallen from his cautious lips, brought 
infinite joy and comfort into the heart of the young 
girl and drove away the doubt and distrust that had 
oppressed her a moment before. And she sat with 
smiling lips and bright, moist eyes, silent and passive 
in his embrace, until they drew up in front of a tall 
apartment house, one of many in a side-street just 
off of Broadway. 


CHAPTER VIII 


M rs. GRIMMOND, better known as Lady Clara, 
welcomed Kate with a kindly cordiality that 
the young girl knew at once was sincere, although 
the appearance of the fashion-writer surprised her. 
Tall and conspicuously dressed, and with a color on 
her faded motherly face that even the young country 
girl knew to be artificial. Lady Clara was entirely 
unlike anything ever seen on the streets of Gray- 
town. 

Her rooms were on the eighth floor, and very nice 
and comfortable they were, too. A canary, awak- 
ened by the glare of the electric light, piped shrilly 
from its gilt cage until its mistress threw a shawl 
over him. The walls were hung with pictures, 
among which were many framed originals of news- 
paper cartoons. There were signed photographs 
everywhere, and in the sunniest corner of the room 
stood Mrs. Grimmond^s desk, littered with her work. 
The inevitable tea-service stood on a low table in 
another corner, and through the Bagdad portieres 
the visitor caught a glimpse of a minute private hall 
— the pride of Lady Clara’s heart because of the tone 
that its possession implied — and the little dining- 
room beyond. 

‘‘And so you’re from the same town as Mr. Pen- 
field?” said Lady Clara. “Of course, he explained 
to you that we have to keep mum about your being 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


a friend of his? My dear, youVe positively no idea 
of the meaning of the term office politics till you get 
into the Megaphone office. It’s rampant there, I 
can tell you, and you never know who your friends 
or your enemies are till you wake up some fine morn- 
ing with your head cut off. If it hadn’t been for 
Mr. Penfield I would have been dropped long ago, 
and that’s why I’m so glad to do anything I can for 
you, dear. I suppose you know Mr. Penfield pulls 
a mighty strong oar with Mr. Barshfield these days 
— a very strong oar indeed for any one as young as 
he is. It looks to me as if he’d be sitting way up 
on one of the top steps of the throne before long. 
I’m sure I hope so, for it will make me a great deal 
surer of my job than I ever was before, and that’s 
a mighty important thing when you’ve got others 
to do for as well as yourself.” 

‘‘You haven’t a family, have you, Mrs. Grim- 
mond?” asked Kate, in some surprise, for she had 
imagined her entirely alone in the world. 

“Well,” replied the older woman, “you can take 
it from me that there isn’t a woman in the town 
who’s earning her living that isn’t paying for some- 
body else’s, too. Now, here’s a letter from a man 
I haven’t seen for years and who was no friend of 
mine when I did know him. Did his best to get me 
discharged. He must have used up every friend he 
ever had to come to me. Poor thing! It’s pretty 
tough to have to ask a favor of anybody you’ve tried 
to injure, and he says we ought to let bygones be 
bygones, so I suppose I’ll have to do something 
for him, though he’ll have to wait till pay-day. 
Now, if you don’t mind. I’ll just go in and slip on 
something easier. I’ve been going about all day in 

71 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


this heavy thing until Fm just tired to death with 
the weight of it. You can go on talking just the 
same; I can hear you through the curtains.” 

She withdrew into her bedroom and went on with 
what she was saying: 

“Yes, Fm doing real well this winter; but, of 
course, it’s only hen-cooping, after all. Ever since 
Mr. Marshall’s been back on the Sunday desk he’s 
given me all the space I want and let me suggest 
my own stories and sign any one I liked. I do think 
he’s just the finest man that ever came into Park 
Row, and he’s got the loveliest wife and the sweetest 
child and the dearest home you can find anywhere 
in this whole city. You’ve heard of his wife, haven’t 
you — Leona Dare, that used to do the fashions 
and society notes ? Oh, she was a hen-cooper once 
just the same as me, and there’s quite a little ro- 
mance about the way she came to marry him.” 

Lady Clara paused at this point in her narration 
in a way that somehow led Kate to suspect that she 
was dragging some garment over her head, and while 
she is thus employed I will explain that in the par- 
lance of Park Row a “hen-coop” is the room de- 
voted to the feminine members of the staff, who are 
known as “hen-coopers,” and who speak of their 
profession as “hen-cooping.” 

“You see, Mr. Marshall sent Leona Dare out on 
a heart-interest story one day when she had been 
about a year on the paper and hadn’t done anything 
but society and fashions. The poor thing had never 
had any experience at all except what she got in 
that one year, and she was as nervous as could be 
when she got this assignment. Well, they oughtn’t 
to have sent a young thing like her to do any such 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


work; but Mr. Marshall thought she could get 
away with it all right, and, to tell the truth, he was 
just beginning to get a little interested in her and 
was anxious to push her along. If he had sent some 
old person like me it would have been all right, but 
to send a young girl not more than twelve months 
out of Vassar, where she got all sorts of notions in 
her head about the beautiful in literary art, and the 
great amount of good that a woman ought to do 
with her pen, and Heaven knows what else besides — 
to send her out on such an assignment as that wasn’t 
right.” 

Again Mrs. Grimmond’s narrative was smothered 
in rustling silk, and Kate took advantage of the 
pause to ask her what the assignment was. 

“Well, there was a young Italian girl in Mulberry 
Street that got jealous of a married woman that lived 
in the same block with her own sweetheart, and 
one day she took a knife and went in and killed the 
woman and her two-year-old child. It was a big 
story, and Mr. Marshall thought Leona could cover 
it, and he told her to go up there and do it. He 
meant it in all kindness, but when she got there and 
saw the woman and the child lying out on the bed, 
with candles round them and the spots on the floor 
where the blood had spattered, she just keeled over 
in a dead faint, and they had to ring for an ambulance 
before they could bring her to. Then she was weak 
as a cat, and instead of turning in a big heart-interest 
story of a column and a half, all she could write was 
a little miserable half column that they boiled down 
to two paragraphs. Mr. Marshall was so mad with 
her for falling down on the story that he wrote her 
a sharp note, and she got sore and left. Then she 
73 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


couldn’t get anything to do, and her landlady gave 
her notice to leave, and if it hadn’t been for my 
meeting her on the street and asking her to come and 
stop with me a little while I don’t know what would 
have happened.” 

At this point in her narrative Lady Clara emerged 
from the bedroom clothed in a garment unlike any- 
thing that Kate had ever seen before, and fashioned 
of embroidered silk of dazzling scarlet. 

“Lovely, isn’t it.?” she remarked, complacently, 
as she surveyed herself in the tall mirror. “That 
was sent me by the advertising manager of the Green- 
berg & Billheimer Co. the day of their spring open- 
ing. He’s an awfully nice man, and just as thought- 
ful and generous as any man could possibly be. He’s 
a bachelor, too, though I always tell him he’s cheat- 
ing some woman out of the very best husband any 
of us could ever hope to get. Well, where was I in 
my story?” 

“You’d just got to where you met her on the street 
and asked her to come and stop with you,” answered 
Kate, who was very much interested. 

“Oh yes! Well, I fixed up a cot for her in the 
parlor, and there she stayed for six weeks. And any 
one nicer to live with than that girl you can’t imag- 
ine. She cooked beautifully, and she simply insisted 
upon doing all the housework — making the beds, 
getting the meals, and everything. When I got back 
at night, no matter how late it was, I always found 
her waiting for me with the daintiest little supper all 
nice and hot and ready on the table, the very minute 
I was out of my dress and into my kimono. Mr. 
Marshall was always asking me about her, but I 
never let on I knew where she was; only said that 
74 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


I thought she must be having a pretty hard time of 
it, poor thing! I suppose you know it’s a good thing 
to keep a man on the anxious seat when you have the 
chance. Then one day he asked me how it was I 
came to be looking so happy and well fed, and a 
bright idea came into my head, and I said to him: 
‘Mr. Marshall, I’ve got a cook that’s done it all, and 
if you’ll come to dinner next Friday night’ — that 
was his day off and mine too — ‘I’ll give you a taste 
of her cooking.’ Leona said at first she’d rather cut 
her hand off than cook so much as an egg for him — 
I knew by that she still had a fondness for him — but 
I told her she had just got to do as I told her, and so, 
to make a long story short, Mr. Marshall came up, 
and we gave him the loveliest dinner he ever had in 
his life. A beautiful thick steak all smothered in 
fresh mushrooms — at least his piece was; I told 
him they made me ill, and so they do when they’re 
a dollar a pound — and before that a whole can of 
French tomato soup that I told him the new cook 
made by stewing fresh tomatoes four hours over a 
slow fire; and a most delicious salad that Leona in- 
vented herself — I’ll get her to make you one some 
day — and — oh, I forgot, we had oysters to begin 
with — and for dessert a rum omelette with eggs that 
weren’t more than an hour old.” 

“Did your friend wait on table and change the 
plates?” asked Kitty. 

“No, indeed, she stood just outside the door — I 
had him sitting with his back to it — and we passed 
the things from one to another. Two or three times 
I caught her peeking in and shaking her fist at him. 
And when we were all through and he was smoking 
his cigar and drinking a cup of coffee with a little 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


brandy in it, I asked him if he wouldn’t like to see 
my little kitchen and took him out where Leona, 
with her sleeves rolled up, was washing the dishes.” 

“What happened then?” demanded Kitty, eagerly. 

“I don’t know. I went out and left them there 
with the door closed, and the next day Leona was 
back on the paper, and in three months they were 
married. Now, don’t mind me, but go to bed just 
as soon as you feel like it.” 

At ten o’clock next morning Kate awoke to find 
Mrs. Grimmond, still clad in her gorgeous kimono, 
standing at her bedside with a tray in her hand. 

“Sit up, dear, and have some tea and toast and 
a boiled egg,” said that amiable woman. “I thought 
I’d let you sleep as long as possible. By and by, 
when the work begins to tell on you, it won’t be so 
easy to sleep sound the whole night through as you 
do in the country. And as soon as you’re ready we’ll 
go down-town together.” 

“But aren’t we very late?” asked the young girl, 
who had never heard of any one going to work after 
eight or, at the latest, nine in the morning. 

“It doesn’t matter very much at this time of the 
week,” replied the other. “I’ve got my page all 
made up, and, besides, I’m doing a lot of my work 
at home. That’s the best way in Park Row. Keep 
out of the office as much as you can, and they’ll for- 
get you’re there. If you’re around under foot all 
the time somebody’s likely to get sore on you and try 
to cop out your job.” 

It was almost twelve when Mrs. Grimmond led 
the way into the Megaphone building and up, by 
way of the elevator, to the small room on the ninth 
floor which was called the hen-coop. Miss Minturn, 
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a thin, dark, sharp-featured young woman with eyes 
like gimlets and a face deeply marked by the un- 
mistakable lines of sour discontent, welcomed the 
new-comer by extending a frigid hand and declaring, 
in tones that seemed to give the lie to her words, 
that she was “very pleased to meet her/’ After 
this greeting she resumed her writing with much 
apparent industry and absorption, but several times 
during the day Kate became conscious of her sharp 
scrutiny, and was oppressed with the uncomfortable 
thought that she had already encountered an an- 
tagonistic spirit in the Megaphone office. 

“Here’s a story that I think you can do very 
nicely,” said Lady Clara, as soon as Kate had estab- 
lished herself at the one vacant desk with fresh ink 
and pens and a big pad of white paper before her. 
“It’s the business office’s idea, so you want to do 
your level best. The caption is ‘Ear-rings in All 
Climes and Ages,’ and you’d better do about a 
column and a half. The cuts will bring it up to 
three columns. Begin with somebody away back, 
like Cleopatra, that wore ear-rings and carry it right 
down to the present day. The department stores 
are handling a lot of them now, and will give us the 
cuts, so all you’ll have to do will be to describe them. 
Of course, you can cover Cleopatra and those an- 
cient dames in a few stickfuls and give all the rest 
of your space to the new styles they’re advertising. 
And be sure to tell how they’re worn at Newport 
and Tuxedo. I’ll have a couple of pictures of so- 
ciety women wearing them. And I’ll send out and 
get all the clippings they’ve got about ear-rings.” 

Aided by the office envelope of clippings, the 
encyclopedia, and a half-dozen proofs of cuts sup- 
77 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


plied from the business office, Kate set to work with 
so much energy that she was well into the modern 
fashions when Lady Clara, who had been bustling 
in and out of the office and holding whispered con- 
ferences with various members of the staff* from the 
moment of her arrival, announced that it was time 
for lunch. 

‘‘You must lunch with me to-day,’’ said Kate, re- 
membering what the other had said the night before 
about the state of her funds, and together they went 
down Park Row and through a narrow street — the 
country girl would have called it merely an alley- 
way — to a restaurant occupying three or four floors 
and running clear through to the next street. On 
the second floor, in which a great many late ones 
still lingered, gossiping for the most part over 
cigarettes, coffee, and little glasses of brandy, they 
found Mr. Marshall and his wife finishing their re- 
past, and at their cordial bidding they seated them- 
selves beside them. 

“And so you’re new to this business?” said Mrs. 
Marshall, with friendly interest, as Lady Clara took 
up the bill of fare. Kate noticed that she was 
pretty, very well dressed, and had a kindly manner 
that attracted her at once. “I had four years at 
it,” she went on, “and it would have ended in a case 
of nervous prostration if it hadn’t been for this man 
here who found something else for me to do.” 

“Something you’re much better fitted for than 
newspaper work,” remarked her husband, dryly, but 
as if he meant much more than he said. 

“Lady Clara, you certainly must bring Miss 
Craven up to the flat to see little Tommy!” con- 
tinued the young wife. “He’s getting bigger and 

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lovelier and cunninger every day, and you haven’t 
been to see him for months. I know he feels terribly 
about it.” 

“The sweetest baby that ever lived!” cried Mrs. 
Grimmond. “Here, waiter, bring us some of those 
clams — you like clams, don’t you dear.? — and then 
after that we’ll have a medium steak with bernaise 
sauce — don’t let them cook it to a cinder! — and some 
potatoes hashed in cream and a small bottle of red 
wine. That won’t break you, will it, dear.? You 
see,” she added, turning to Mrs. Marshall, “I’m in 
my usual day-before-pay-day condition, and if Miss 
Craven hadn’t nobly invited me to lunch with her 
I should have starved.” 

“If you let every beat and bum on Park Row hold 
you up you certainly will starve one of these days,” 
said Marshall, severely. 

“Oh, well, but how can I help handing out a 
dollar now and then to a poor fellow that’s in hard 
luck.? I say to myself, if he can put away his pride 
and come to me for money he certainly must need 
it,” replied Lady Clara, with the easy-going logic 
of her kind. 

“Put away his pride!” snorted Marshall, indig- 
nantly. “The man that will sponge on a woman 
like you has got no pride to put away. There are 
plenty of poor people in this town who really need 
and deserve a little help, but they’d starve if they 
waited for you women to do anything for them. If 
you feel charitable I’ll tell you of some places where 
a few dollars will do a lot of good. But you don’t! 
You sloppy, sentimental women think that you’ve 
actually got charitable motives, but you’ve not. 
You’ve got a few sympathetic nerves somewhere 
79 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


near the surface of the skin that can be easily reached 
and have a quick connection with your tear-ducts. 
Those nerves respond only to the touch of cheek 
and mendacity, so you’ll pass by a lot of deserving 
cases and keep yourself broke for the sake of per- 
petuating the race of Park Row beats. That’s what 
you call ‘doing a little good in the world.’” 

Kate Craven’s attention was arrested not only 
by the Sunday editor’s words, but by the force with 
which he uttered them, and at the same time she 
recalled the begging letter received by Lady Clara 
the night before. That women should borrow of 
one another, even of those whom they had injured, 
seemed natural enough, but that men of the class 
described by Mr. Marshall as Park Row beats and 
bums should be willing to accept charity from this 
kindly, simple-minded, hard-working woman seemed 
appalling. 

“Don’t be so harsh, Fred!” said Mrs. Marshall, 
laying an affectionate hand on the elder woman’s 
shoulder. “Remember there was one person Lady 
Clara helped who really needed help and who hasn’t 
forgotten it, either.” 

And as Lady Clara raised her eyes gratefully 
from her plate, Kate saw that they were brimming 
with tears, but whether because of Mr. Marshall’s 
sharp words or the gentle ones of his wife she could 
not guess. 


CHAPTER IX 


T hose were wonderful days that followed Kate’s 
advent in New York — days whose every flying 
hour enriched her mind with some fresh knowledge 
or illumined it with some new point of view. Gray- 
town, in which she had passed her whole life, was 
fast becoming a mere memory. New York was her 
world now, a world of infinite variety and ceaseless 
activities, in which she was determined to make a 
place for herself. Bit by bit the great city was 
casting its spell over her. She was beginning to love 
the wind-swept canons that lay between its huge 
down-town sky-scrapers, the blaze that made Broad- 
way a wondrous nightly panorama, and even the 
picturesque bits called ‘‘foreign quarters” that she 
glimpsed from car windows on her way up and 
down town. At first the sullen, unceasing roar of 
street traffic had stunned her, but now it was music 
in her ears. 

But, more than all the rest, it was the women who 
appealed to her, no matter whether rolling down 
Fifth Avenue in luxurious vehicles, streaming out of 
the big department stores at closing-time, or stagger- 
ing through the meaner streets under great bundles 
of shoddy clothing. To her they were all members 
of a universal sisterhood, bound together by ties 
of common interest, and stimulating her mind to 
schemes for their betterment that should lighten the 

8i 


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toil of some and deprive others of a moiety of the 
spoils of exorbitant and unneeded wealth. 

She realized now the value of the education that 
she owed to the contents of the old mahogany book- 
case. She had been a judicious and attentive 
rather than a wide reader, and her retentive mind 
was a storehouse of the best literature from which 
she could draw at will. Lady Clara, who had never 
read a serious book in her life, was amazed at the 
facility with which this unsophisticated young coun- 
try girl could, at a moment’s notice and by mere 
recourse to her memory, furnish apt quotations from 
the Bible, Shakespeare, Emerson, and even the Latin 
and Greek philosophers. 

The work required of Kate was not difficult. 
Like most women who have served a long appren- 
ticeship on Park Row, Lady Clara was content to 
tread the paths worn bare by the feet of her pred- 
ecessors, and it was this careful shaping of her 
course that had won for her the confidence and ap- 
proval of royalty. For Barshfield, although gen- 
erally regarded as a woman-hater because he was 
unmarried and, so far as any one knew, unattached, 
had a keen sense of the commercial value of an adroit 
feminine appeal. The Woman’s Page was one of 
his pet institutions, and he regarded its sloppy pro- 
ductions with supreme satisfaction, although he sel- 
dom read beyond the head-lines. With serene mas- 
culine complacency he considered that feminine 
interests ranged from fashions and society down to 
recipes for cookery and cosmetics, and schemes for 
the extermination of insects and the removal of 
grease-spots from woolen fabrics. Almost anything 
that lay between these not too remote poles of learn- 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


ing might be printed to the enlightenment and enter- 
tainment of the feminine sex; but above them were 
regions of intellectuality into which women could 
not hope to journey. Below them was nothing worth 
printing. 

Another belief that Barshfield and Lady Clara 
held in common was that indiscriminate praise of all 
women who happened to fill the public eye for the 
moment was highly pleasing to the whole sex. It 
was, therefore, the policy of the Woman’s Page to 
speak in flattering terms of every one. The women 
who received municipal appointments or tried to 
obtain them straightway became the subjects of 
glowing eulogies, and even higher praise was heaped 
upon those who headed ‘‘movements” of any sort. 
Poisoners and ladies who figured in the divorce 
courts and in unsavory scandals gained a halo 
through Lady Clara’s sympathetic treatment. 

“You must always remember,” she said to her 
assistant, “that you can view almost any case from 
the standpoint of heart-interest.” 

In her first long letter to her mother, written just 
ten days after her arrival in the city, Kate spoke in 
detail of her work. She had told the members of her 
sex how to raise squab, and had estimated the gains 
of that calling from imaginative figures furnished by 
Lady Clara; she had visited a woman about to be 
tried for infanticide and written a “heart-interest” 
account of the case, intimating that if her hus- 
band had supplied her with more spending-money 
she would not have been led into crime; she had 
prepared illuminating articles on the wearing of ear- 
rings, the making-over of dresses, the canning of 
tomatoes, and the care of infants during the period 

7 83 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


of teething. In the “Heart and Soul” column, 
supposedly conducted by one Frissie Flirt, but ac- 
tually under her own supervision — Frissie being what 
Lady Clara called “only an office signature” — she 
had given sage counsel to scores of the disappointed, 
the anxious, and the lovesick. 

So far as it went the letter was a miracle of frank- 
ness and honesty. From its half-dozen closely 
written pages Susan Craven was able to gain a clear 
comprehension of her daughter’s life under its new 
conditions, her intimate association with Lady Clara, 
and the nature of her duties on the Woman’s Page. 
And while recognizing and grateful for its frankness, 
its perusal left her with an uneasy feeling that the 
work was vulgar and altogether unworthy of her 
daughter’s talents and upbringing. Was this the 
best that the metropolis had to offer in the way of 
literary employment.? Surely on a paper of the 
importance of the Megaphone there should be need 
of efforts more worthy than these! But perhaps 
that would come in good time, and at least it was 
a comfort to learn, as she did from a single sentence 
at the bottom of the last page, that Kate had thus 
far seen but little of Ned Penfield. 

This was more than true, for if Penfield had been 
employed on a Martian journal Kate would scarcely 
have seen less of him than she did under their present 
agreement. He passed her now and then in the 
corridor, but never with even a nod of recognition; 
and her heart hungered for the old companionship. 
He was the only man she had ever known intimately 
or cared for, and she found herself in the paradoxical 
situation of wishing that some one would introduce 
him to her. The estrangement was the only thing 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


that marred the happiness she found in her work, 
her association with Lady Clara, and the hourly op- 
portunities for learning. But despite these manifold 
opportunities the city that she saw was still the 
mirage of her dreams. 

Of all this she said nothing in her letter to her 
mother. Nor did she mention the fact that from 
the moment of her arrival in the Megaphone office 
she had felt herself an object of more than ordinary 
interest to the other members of the staff. The 
women seemed politely indifferent to her presence, 
and more than one of them, she thought, glanced 
superciliously at her clothes, thus constantly remind- 
ing her that they were not of urban cut, though they 
had done very well in Gray town. The men looked 
at her clothes, too, but in a different way. In fact, 
although personal vanity was not one of her besetting 
sins, she could not long remain unconscious of the 
fact that the masculine element of the staff regarded 
her with distinct approval. Moreover, as the looks 
with which the men favored her generally included 
her whole figure, she was led to believe that her 
close-fitting dress of brown — a triumph of the Gray- 
town dressmaker — ^was not displeasing to them. 

‘T wish you’d tell me what there is peculiar about 
my clothes,” she said to Lady Clara one afternoon; 
‘‘the women seem to sniff at them, but the men 
don’t.” 

“Don’t worry about your dress,” said the other. 
“It’s neat and pretty and fits you well — too well, 
perhaps,” she added, with a smile. 

“Too well!” repeated Kate. “What do you 
mean?” 

“My dear, it’s not your dress that attracts atten- 

ds 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


tion, but what’s inside it. You’ve got the sort of 
figure that makes a man turn and stare and causes 
cattish women, of whom we have a few in this office, 
to disapprove. The first time I saw you I said to 
myself, ‘There’s a girl who’s born to make a lot of 
trouble’; and, you see, you’re beginning already. 
Did none of those men up the state ever tell you 
that you had a pretty shape?” 

“Ned Penfield used to say that, but I never 
thought it was such an important matter. Here 
in New York, though, it seems to count more than 
brains.” 

“It certainly does,” rejoined Lady Clara; “es- 
pecially when it comes to making trouble. By and 
by you must get yourself a nice low-cut evening 
dress, and then you’ll see the men just eating you 
with their eyes.” 

“No, I thank you,” replied Kate, blushing prettily 
as she spoke; “when I exhibit myself in that fashion 
it will be for the benefit of one man alone!” And 
she resumed her work, unconscious of the amused 
smile with which Lady^Clara continued to regard her. 

The color deepened in her cheeks as the full mean- 
ing of Lady Clara’s words reached her inner con- 
sciousness. She realized that the men who had 
stared at her had been appraising her good points 
as farmers note those of cattle at a county fair, but 
with far less innocent intent, and she resented their 
attitude of mind with keen loathing, all the more so 
because she was powerless to prevent it. For a 
moment she even went so far as to wish that the 
Lord had made her flat-chested and spindle-shanked 
instead of the full-bosomed, well-rounded girl that 
she was. 


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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


There was one man in the Megaphone shop whom 
Kate had liked from the first, chiefly because of the 
extreme courtesy and deference with which he treated 
all the women in the office, herself, it seemed to her, 
more than the rest. As she came to know him bet- 
ter she found him well read, thoughtful, and with 
a point of view that was gentle and by no means 
in sympathy with that of Park Row. 

Ernest Telford was a New-Yorker by birth, which 
made him a rare bird in his environment. His posi- 
tion was that of “rewrite-man”; that is to say, he 
rewrote in good English and with genuine literary 
skill the crude, hastily prepared stories turned in 
by reporters with more legs than brains or sent in 
over the telephone in the common vernacular of the 
day. His ability in this line of work was generally 
acknowledged, and it was believed that had he so 
desired he might long since have risen to a high 
place in the councils of the kitchen. But Telford 
seemed content with his duties as a rewriter of 
other men’s work; coming to his desk late in the 
afternoon and remaining till after midnight. A tall, 
slender man of forty-one, with rather sad, brown 
eyes, a refined face, and long, slender white hands 
which by some daily miracle escaped the ink-stains 
which are the badge of Park Row servitude, his was 
an appealing figure in the eyes of Kate Craven. 

Impelled by curiosity, she looked up what he had 
rewritten, and was surprised at the purity of his 
English and the charm and grace of his style. That 
a man of his literary attainments should be put to 
the degrading drudgery of rewriting and polishing 
the raw work of his intellectual inferiors seemed to 
Kate like placing a high-mettled and blooded racer 

87 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


between the shafts of a huckster’s cart. She said 
as much to Lady Clara, and the latter replied: 

“Telford knows that he can hold that job as long 
as he likes, because if there’s any upheaval in the 
office the storm will pass right over his head and 
he’ll be safe there in his own little corner. Besides, 
he has a pretty good salary and time to do a little 
outside work of the sort that he likes. I only wish 
you and I were as sure of our jobs as he is, or as 
well paid.” 

That night when Kate came home she found the 
air heavy with cigarette-smoke and sachet-powder. 
A slender, blue-eyed, and flaxen-haired woman was 
seated in the little front parlor in close converse 
with Lady Clara, who was holding the visitor’s hand 
in both of hers and listening with almost tearful 
sympathy to her words. Kate noticed that the 
stranger’s attire was costly and that her jewelry 
was worn for effect. Her feet — small, slender, and 
shod in dazzling patent leather — rested on the round 
of a chair, and her stockings were drawn up so tight- 
ly as to reveal the white flesh between the meshes 
of the thin black silk. A broad hat of the kind fre- 
quently pictured on the fashion page crowned her 
blond head, and another of precisely the same make 
peeped coyly over the edge of an onen bandbox 
on the center-table. 

“Kate, dear,” exclaimed Lady Clara, “this is 
Mrs. Rowenna, whose picture we ran this morning! 
Roberta, I’ve always wanted you to know Miss 
Craven. I’m sure you two are just going to love 
each other. She helps me get out the page.” 

“You dear, sweet thing!” cried Mrs. Rowenna, 
impulsively, as she leaped to her feet and seized 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Kate with both hands. ‘‘Of course Fll love you! 
Who could help it? As if I didn’t love everybody 
on the Megaphone after that beautiful article it 
printed about me to-day. I read it in bed this 
morning, and I just cried and cried.” 

Kate noticed that the face turned toward her was 
decidedly pretty and becomingly colored. Mean- 
while Lady Clara had taken the hat from the 
bandbox. 

“Just see what this darling brought me!” she said, 
displaying the huge “creation,” as the fashion page 
would have called it — a marvelous combination of 
feathers, fur, and velvet. 

“She deserves more than that,” replied Mrs. 
Rowenna, still holding Kate’s hands and gazing 
into her eyes with a sad smile. “Here I’ve been 
for the last hour telling her my troubles while she 
listened like an angel.” 

“And so absorbed that she forgot to offer you 
any refreshment!” broke in Lady Clara, suddenly 
dropping the hat and hastening into the dining- 
room. 

“You must come and see me some afternoon,” 
said Mrs. Rowenna, impulsively. “I’m sure that I 
could talk as freely to you as to that darling Mrs. 
Grimmond.” 

“But I’m always down-town in the afternoon,” 
said Kate, tactfully disengaging her hand as if for 
the purpose of taking off her hat. “Some evening, 
perhaps.” 

“I’ve got some lovely rye whisky that Colonel 
Culpepper sent me, or shall I make you a cup of 
tea?” called Lady Clara from the dining-room. 

“Oh, don’t trouble to make tea,” answered Mrs, 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Rowenna, quickly; and a moment later the hostess 
appeared with whisky, a siphon, and three glasses. 
The visitor re-established her feet on the round of 
the chair, a lighted cigarette in one hand and a glass 
in the other, and resumed her earnest discourse with 
Lady Clara while Kate withdrew to her own room. 
For the first time in her life she had met an actress 
face to face, and the novel experience quite thrilled 
her. She had always understood that players were 
different from other folks, and so emotional in tem- 
perament that their occasional lapses from virtue 
were not to be judged by the severe standard under 
which she herself had been reared by her New Eng- 
land mother. Nevertheless the cigarette, the dis- 
play of stockings, the whisky, and above all the 
strange tenseness with which this one had gazed 
into her eyes while holding both her hands had 
proved something of a shock to her conventional 
ideas. She knew that Mrs. Rowenna must be what 
she called a ‘‘good woman,” otherwise Lady Clara 
would not have admitted her to their home, and for 
a brief moment she wondered what the bad ones 
were like. 

The visitor was saying good-by when Kate re- 
turned to the parlor. She had her arms clasped 
around the elder woman, and was saying: 

“The world may misjudge me, but you know, 
dearest, that our marriage was just the same in the 
sight of God as if a priest had mumbled his blessing 
over it.” 

Afterward Kate asked Lady Clara what Mrs. 
Rowenna had meant when she spoke of a marriage 
in the sight of God, adding ingenuously, “I thought 
that was true of all marriages?” 

90 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“My dear, I thought you knew poor Roberta’s 
story,” replied the other. “Oh, I forgot; it all hap- 
pened nearly two years ago while you were living in 
the country. Well, you’re probably the only girl 
in New York who hasn’t heard of it, for it made an 
awful lot of talk at the time. We ran it as a daily 
feature for a whole week, and I covered the heart- 
interest end of it. Poor thing! If ever a woman 
suffered unjustly in this world she did. I declare 
when I saw her on the witness-stand in a blue tailor- 
made suit and a hat with a long, drooping plume, 
her whole form shaking with sobs as she gave her 
testimony, my woman’s heart went out to her. And 
right away I thought of a line to use in my story — 
Mr. Marshall read it in the proof and was so pleased 
that he copped it out of the story and ran it in 
the caption — ‘sobbing her way into twelve stony 
hearts!’ ” 

By this time Kate had begun to understand that 
this pretty, richly dressed young woman with whom 
she had talked that afternoon, and whom she had 
promised to visit, had been the heroine of some epi- 
sode sufficiently sensational to be run as a daily 
feature for a whole week, and she thrilled at the 
thought that she was touching life at a dramatic 
point. 

“Go on!” she exclaimed, breathlessly, as Lady 
Clara paused in her recital. “What was her story, 
and why did she have to tell it in court?” 

“Well,” said Lady Clara, ruminating as if uncer- 
tain how to begin, “it’s one of the saddest and yet 
one of the sweetest love stories I’ve ever covered in 
my life — a heart-throb in every page. Roberta’s 
husband is a brute if ever there was one, and to think 

91 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


that she’s tied to that man for life is enough to 
make you doubt that there’s a God in heaven.” 

“But,” interrupted Kate, “I heard her say that 
hers was a marriage in the sight of God!” 

“She didn’t mean that marriage, dear. You see, 
it was this way. She was a mere child when she 
married — so young that she didn’t know the differ- 
ence between good and evil. Her husband never 
understood her, and, besides, he was jealous and sus- 
picious, and used to make an awful fuss if she so 
much as looked at another man. One night he 
brought a friend home to dinner — mind you, it was 
he that brought him into her life; she didn’t go out 
and look for him — and the moment their eyes met 
her poor starved soul told her that this was the man 
she’d been waiting for. I don’t wonder, either, for 
he’s simply the loveliest man that ever lived, and if 
God ever made a grand actor in His own image. He 
did it when He sent Walter Floodmere to brighten 
this world.” 

Lady Clara was of that numerous class that ad- 
dress the deity more frequently in conversation than 
in prayer. This habit of hers had shocked Kate 
during the earlier stages of their intimacy, but she 
was becoming accustomed to it now, as she was to 
many things in Lady Clara’s philosophy. 

“From the first moment of their meeting,” ram- 
bled on the excellent Lady Clara, “it was all up with 
both of them. If ever there was a sweet, pure, 
beautiful romance, it was theirs. For two weeks it 
was like a lovely dream, and then the husband got 
wise to it and made a dreadful scene. He said per- 
fectly horrid things to Roberta, and told Walter 
never to come near the flat again. But of course 
92 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


that couldn’t keep them apart, and one day he found 
them together in the Park and drew a pistol and tried 
to kill Walter, but he managed to get hold of his 
hand just in time, and the pistol went off and tore 
a big hole in his breast. It’s a pity it didn’t kill 
him!” 

“In Mr. Floodmere’s breast?” asked Kate, breath- 
lessly. 

“No, Roberta’s husband. So of course it all 
came out, and they tried him for shooting himself 
or trying to shoot Walter — I’ve forgotten which — and 
I covered the story and got acquainted with Roberta. 
Walter was magnificent on the witness-stand. Swore 
that she was as pure as a lily, and that he honored 
and respected her as much as his own sister. As 
for Roberta, if you could have seen her sobbing out 
her pitiful little story your heart would have bled 
for her as mine did. The case made so much talk 
that she had several offers from managers right 
away, and that’s how she came to go on the stage.” 

“And her husband? What became of him?” 
asked Kate. 

“Oh, he went out West somewhere. I don’t know 
what became of him; but Walter behaved like a per- 
fect gentleman, and he’d marry her to-morrow if it 
wasn’t for her husband. That’s all that stands be- 
tween them and perfect happiness, the poor dears!” 

In writing her weekly letter to her mother Kate 
did not mention Roberta Rowenna. To have said 
that she had made the acquaintance of an actress 
would have led to awkward questionings on the part 
of the elder woman, and she was quite sure that her 
mother would fail to “understand” Mrs. Rowenna’s 
case or to view it through the spectacles of Lady 
93 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Clara’s easy-going philosophy. But she told her 
about Ernest Telford, “the one really intellectual 
man she had met,” and gave a description of him 
that she knew would convince her mother that she 
was prospering socially as well as professionally. 


CHAPTER X 


I T was the literary quality of Kate’s work that 
first attracted Telford’s attention and caused 
him to stop at her desk one morning and speak to 
her about it. 

‘‘You ought to feel complimented,” said Lady 
Clara. “It’s the first time I ever knew Mr. Telford 
to pay any attention to anything written on the 
woman’s page. He’s always been against the page, 
anyway. Says it’s sloppy mush.” 

“Well, isn’t it?” inquired Kate. 

“I suppose it is,” admitted Lady Clara, “but 
they’re all like that. It wouldn’t do to print any 
really good stuff — not for women. They wouldn’t 
like it.” 

Kate had wondered from the first at the inferior 
quality of the matter offered by Lady Clara to the 
Megaphone s feminine readers, and now she deter- 
mined to ask Mr. Telford whether he thought all 
New York women were as feeble-minded as Lady 
Clara assumed them to be. 

An opportunity soon came; and Telford, having 
listened with grave attention to what she had to 
say, replied: 

“My dear young lady, you are just beginning to 
learn that women themselves are their own worst 
enemies. Down in the bottom of their hearts the 
best as well as the worst of them despise their own 
95 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


sex, no matter what they may say ^ to the contrary. 
If you want to realize the contempt in which women 
hold their sisters, put one of them in charge of a 
woman’s page in a daily newspaper. Let’s see what 
you’re giving them to-day.” 

He picked up a copy of the Megaphone and ran 
his eye over the columns edited by Lady Clara, 
while Kate, looking over his shoulder, realized more 
than ever before the utter banality of it all. 

“‘How Two Dozen Hens Took My Daughter 
Through College’!” read Mr. Telford. “I suppose 
that will be followed by ‘How Two Rabbits Clothed 
the Baby’! Why on earth does Mrs. Grimmond 
print those preposterous yarns ? And here’s a series 
of ‘Practical Hints on Playwriting’ by Dolly Deer- 
ing. May I ask who Dolly Deering is and how it 
happens that she is able to enlighten the public on 
such a difficult and little understood subject.^” 

“She’s that shabby little woman who sits in the 
corner and does the family recipes. Mrs. Grimmond 
tries to help her all she can.” 

“And who wrote that puff* of — ^what’s her name.? 
Roberta Rowenna! Who in the world is she?” 

“She’s an actress, a friend of Mrs. Grimmond’s.” 

“And Mrs. Grimmond proves her friendship by 
giving her half a column of free and probably un- 
deserved puffery in Mr. Barshfield’s newspaper. In 
other words, she’s playing with her employer’s chips. 
I hope none of your friends figure on the page.” 

“No,” replied Kate, “I haven’t any friends to 
oblige. I’m sorry to say.” 

“You ought to be glad, not sorry, that you haven’t 
got a swarm of people working you for favors. 
They’re not friends, you know, these women that 
96 


T H B GREAT MIRAGE 


are always after something. That’s Mrs. Grim- 
mond’s weakness, and it will prove her ruin some 
day. Don’t you ever yield to that temptation.” 

Kate pondered over the words of the rewriter 
and realized the truth contained in them. That 
afternoon she repeated them to Lady Clara and 
took pains to mention Telford’s prediction that her 
policy of obliging her friends at the cost of the paper 
would, if persisted in, prove her ruin. 

“I’d like to know what business it is of his!” 
exclaimed Lady Clara, angrily. “I should feel 
ashamed of myself if I refused to help some poor 
deserving woman every time I had a chance.” 

“Yes, but do you think it’s right to use the paper 
for that purpose.? It’s like taking the money from 
the office till to pay your private debts with. If you 
want to help any of these friends of yours — and I 
don’t believe they’re real friends — do it out of your 
own pocket.” 

“But I can’t, because my pocket’s empty,” re- 
joined Lady Clara, simply. “I just gave my last 
ten dollars to poor Charley Densmore, who’s getting 
over a bat and wants to straighten up and get to 
work again.” 

“Do you mean to say you gave ten dollars to 
that wretched, drunken reporter!” exclaimed Kate, 
indignantly. “I don’t see how he had the face to 
ask for it.” 

“What else could I do?” said Lady Clara, in tones 
of pathetic meekness. “He told me his wife was 
sick and there wasn’t a penny in the house to buy 
food with. That ten dollars will put him on his 
feet again.” 

“Of course there’s no money for food if he spends 
97 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


it all for whisky,” rejoined Kate, sharply. ‘^And 
besides, I don’t think your ten will go to any such 
useful purpose as putting him on his feet again. 
He’s probably spending it in some rum-shop at this 
very moment.” 

And two hours later, as they were passing the door 
of the Brasserie of Hard Times on their way home, 
they saw Densmore emerge and start on his un- 
steady march toward the street-car. 

It was after seven o’clock that night when the 
two women left the office, the younger exhausted 
from her long day’s work and the still unaccustomed 
noise and rush of the big town. The great exodus of 
toilers from the lower part of the city had ended; 
Harlem, Staten Island, Brooklyn, and the Long 
Island, Westchester, and New Jersey suburbs had 
gathered them in for the night, and the Broadway 
car in which they seated themselves was almost 
empty and the great thoroughfare free from inter- 
fering traffic as they rolled up-town. The contrast 
between the quiet of the after-business hours and the 
tumult that reigned on the daily trip down-town at 
noon impressed itself forcibly on Kate’s mind. It 
was still new and strange to her, and as she gazed 
at the tall buildings, with their closed and padlocked 
doors and the iron shutters pulled down over their 
windows, she wondered at the magnitude of the 
city’s commerce and asked herself how much money 
was rolled up behind those walls of steel and stone 
and where and by whom it was all spent. Later, 
when she became familiar with the upper part of 
the city, she often wondered, as many have won- 
dered before her, where all the money came from 
that was spent there so recklessly. 

98 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Another thought that was borne in upon her as 
the car journeyed on past one block after another 
of great, silent loft buildings was her own helpless- 
ness as an unimportant, unconsidered human atom 
in this endless chain of money getting and spending. 
That she was permitted to take even an insignificant 
part in one of the numerous activities of this nerve- 
center of the country was due to an act of grace on 
the part of Penfield, while he, in his turn, owed his 
living to the Megaphone, What would become of 
her were he to lose interest in her (the mere, thought 
was appalling) or to find among the thousands of 
women with which the town swarmed one better 
able to help and hold him? Then she remembered, 
as she had already remembered more than once, 
but with a keener anxiety now and a deeper de- 
pression at the heart, his warning to keep their in- 
timacy a secret. Could it be that he had already 
found some one else to take her place? 

‘‘It’s too much trouble to get dinner at home to- 
night. Let’s get olF and go to a lovely little table 
d'hote that I know. It’s only sixty-five cents with 
wine, and I touched the cashier for ten dollars in 
advance to-day.” 

Thus did Lady Clara break in upon her anxious 
thoughts with a welcome suggestion, and a moment 
later they left the car and journeyed westward down 
a quiet side-street to the little old-fashioned house 
that sheltered the French restaurant. 

Kate Craven never forgot the impression received 
on her mind when she entered the room that had 
once served as a front drawing-room, separated only 
by folding-doors from one precisely similar in size 
and dimensions, and saw for the first time in her 

8 99 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


life a New York table d^hdte in full blast. The spec- 
tacle was destined to become a familiar one to her; 
but that first impression was never effaced from her 
memory. 

It must be remembered that her worldly experi- 
ences had up to this moment been of the most 
limited kind. Prior to her arrival in New York she 
had never seen a large city or conceived of the in- 
finite variety of life and customs to be found in one. 
And now the contrast between the cold, shabby, 
gloomily silent side-street, whose shadowy doorways 
and windy corners had held unknown terrors for 
her as she passed them clinging timidly to her com- 
panion’s arm, and the brightly lighted room crowded 
with diners dimly seen through overhanging clouds 
of tobacco-smoke, was almost startling. Following 
meekly in the wake of Lady Clara, who walked 
swiftly through the room, searching with keen eyes 
for an unoccupied table, Kate thought that she saw 
the familiar face of Ned Penfield staring at her 
through the mist. 

‘‘Sit down here, Mrs. Grimmond,” said a cheerful 
voice; and Kate dropped into a chair at a corner 
table, fully conscious of the heightened color of her 
cheeks, for every eye had been fixed upon her as 
she passed down the room. 

“Miss Craven, allow me to present Mr. Bruce 
Penhallow, the dramatic editor of the Megaphone ” 
said Lady Clara; and Mr. Penhallow, who had 
politely risen to his feet to welcome them, bowed 
and extended a cordial hand. Kate noticed that he 
was short and rotund, and that his manner was 
cordial and deferential, especially when he addressed 
himself to Lady Clara. She noticed this because it 

lOO 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


had seemed to her that in the Megaphone office 
Lady Clara was usually greeted with friendly fa- 
miliarity rather than with the respect due to a 
woman of her years and experience. 

Kate had seated herself with her back to the 
other diners, and she wondered now if she had really 
seen Ned Penfield or only dreamed it. But she did 
not dare to look around, and, besides, she remem- 
bered Ned’s command that for a time at least they 
were to meet as strangers. 

Meanwhile the proprietor of the place, an under- 
sized Frenchman of smiling aspect and alert move- 
ment, had welcomed Lady Clara in a few polite 
words while placing on the table a quart bottle of 
red wine and a small dish containing a few radishes 
and olives and half a dozen anchovies — the smallest 
fish that Kate had ever seen served at a meal. Lady 
Clara picked hungrily at these delicacies and talked 
to Mr. Penhallow, explaining to him Kate’s con- 
nection with the Woman’s Page and assuring him 
that with the exception of herself the child had not 
“a single friend in New York” — a lie that flowed 
so easily and naturally from her lips that, even with 
Penfield in her mind, and perhaps actually in the 
room, it sounded to Kate almost like the truth. 

The waiter now brought two plates of thick soup 
liberally coated with grated cheese, placed on the 
table two large glasses half filled with cracked ice, 
and removed the cork from the bottle of wine. The 
hum of conversation rose above the rattle of the 
dishes and cutlery, and Kate wished that she had 
seated herself beside Penhallow instead of opposite 
to him, so that she could have had a better view of 
the company. The women within her range of vision 

lOI 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


seemed so gaily attired that she wondered if it had 
been her country dress, of which she was becoming 
more and more conscious every moment, that had 
caused every one to stare at her as she made her 
way down the room. 

‘‘How would you like Mr. Penhallow’s job.?’’ said 
Lady Clara, as she dissected with delicate skill the 
framework of fin, head, and vertebrae named on the 
menu as “perches.” “All he has to do is to go to 
the theater every night and go behind the scenes 
when he feels like it, and come down to the office as 
late as he pleases. On Sundays he dines with some 
fascinating actress, and goes to the most delightful re- 
ceptions where fashion and genius mingle together.” 

“I really believe,” said Penhallow, solemnly, “that 
among the many carnal desires and absurd longings 
that are the chief inheritance of the human race, the 
desire to go behind the scenes and be introduced to 
actresses stands pre-eminent. Second to that is the 
craving for free tickets. Men will sometimes refuse 
a drink, but never a chance to get inside a theater 
for nothing. As for going behind the scenes, that 
ranks ahead of Paradise in the popular estimation. 
And there’s precious little to see when you get there, 
and no drinking wine out of actresses’ slippers or any 
such nonsense as you read about written by women 
who were never back of the curtain line in their 
lives. And there’s not so much wickedness there, 
either, if the truth must be told.” 

“Well, how stands the office battle?” inquired 
Lady Clara, lowering her voice and leaning across 
the table. “You needn’t be afraid to speak before 
Miss Craven. She’s as mum as an oyster.” 

“I should say that both sides are resting on their 
102 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


arms just at present/’ he replied, with an air of 
non-committal prudence. 

‘‘Come now, Bruce,” persisted Lady Clara, 
“you’re right in the very heart of office politics and 
know everything that’s going on. Can’t you tip an 
old pal off so she’ll get some idea as to where she 
stands? And, by the way, while you’re listening 
round the steps of the throne, you might keep your 
ear open, and even ask a question now and then 
so as to find out how the Woman’s Page is regarded 
by the royal eye.” 

“I think,” said Penhallow, speaking confidentially 
and glancing cautiously about him, as if suspecting 
some hostile presence, “that in the main you’re quite 
secure; but I happen to know that the royal eye 
would be pleased to observe evidence of a little new 
blood and a few fresh ideas in the page.” 

“That’s just what Miss Craven’s here for!” ex- 
claimed Lady Clara. “Born and brought up in the 
country, never in New York before in her life, she 
ought to be just full of new ideas and fresh impres- 
sions. If hers isn’t new blood, then there isn’t any 
in Park Row.” 

“At any rate,” replied Penhallow, “she hasn’t 
got her mind all clogged up with stale Park Row 
fetishes and traditions like the rest of us. So you’re 
from the country. Miss Craven? New England?” 

“No,” said Kate; “I’m from up the state — near 
Utica.” It was only her quick presence of mind 
that saved her from mentioning Graytown, and she 
colored prettily as she thought how nearly she had 
revealed her secret. Penhallow seemed on the point 
of making further inquiries, but Lady Clara promptly 
diverted the conversation into safer channels, saying: 

103 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘‘Now, Bruce, you might as well tell me every- 
thing you know. Tm so far away from the throne 
that I never hear anything. What does this resting 
on their arms signify?’’ 

“I rather think,” answered Penhallow, “that both 
sides realize that they may have to come together 
temporarily in order to make war against a common 
enemy.” 

“Yes?” queried Lady Clara, with an intensity 
that seemed strange to Kate, who could not under- 
stand how office rivalries could affect the Woman’s 
Page; “and who’s the common enemy?” 

“He’s sitting right behind you now with his back 
to us. Look around and you’ll see him.” As he 
spoke he noted with admiring eye the pretty flush 
of color in Kate’s face. 

Lady Clara turned in her seat. A single quick 
glance told his meaning. “You don’t mean Pen- 
field, do you?” she exclaimed, in surprise. “I’d no 
idea he’d climbed high enough to be regarded as 
important.” 

“He’s been going up the steps of the throne two 
steps at a time,” rejoined the dramatic editor, with 
the air of one who knows. “He’s called into the 
private office about every other day, and only last 
night he went out to dinner with the great white 
Czar. I saw them in Delmonico’s with their heads 
knocking together over the table.” And again 
Penhallow admired, but failed to understand, the 
quickly changing color of the pretty face before 
him. 

“Well, that’s news to me!” exclaimed Lady Clara, 
thoughtfully. “I knew he pulled a strong oar, but 
I must say that in all the years I’ve been in Park 
104 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Row Fve never known any one to climb as high in 
such a short space of time.” 

‘‘He’s had his salary raised right along,” con- 
tinued Penhallow, “and Fm told he’s pulling out 
a hundred and a quarter a week; but he’s so close- 
mouthed you’d never guess it.” 

And this time Kate not only flushed, but gave a 
little gasp of astonishment which caused the critic 
to plume himself on his success in the art of impart- 
ing astounding information. Now he turned from 
the dazed Lady Clara and addressed the young girl 
quickly. 

“Mrs. Grimmond says you’ve only been in Park 
Row a short time, Miss Craven, but if you’ve put 
in your time well you’ve probably learned the ad- 
visability of standing in with the powers that be. 
Penfield’s just getting ready to leave. Suppose I 
bring him over and introduce him?” 

“Have I met Mr. Penfield yet?” inquired Kate of 
Lady Clara, almost hating herself for the hypocrisy, 
yet enjoying the thought that she was in the heart 
of an intrigue. 

“I don’t think so,” she replied, and then added: 
“Bring him over, Bruce! Kate ought to meet him 
anyway.” And a moment later the young girl, 
still feeling uncomfortably the deceit she was prac- 
tising, found herself staring, without a sign of recog- 
nition, into Ned Penfield’s coal-black eyes and mur- 
muring that she was pleased to meet him. . 

By this time Penhallow had finished his dinner, 
while the two women had reached the salad stage 
of what seemed to the unsophisticated Kate a won- 
derful banquet. It was eight o’clock, and the critic 
was due at the theater at a quarter past, so he paid 
105 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


his check, together, with that of the others, who, 
he insisted gallantly, had been dining as his guests, 
and marched out, leaving his place to Penfield. 

“Well, Neddy, did I act the part well?” asked 
Kate. 

“You certainly did,” was his smiling answer. 
“And it was a great relief to me, too, for Fd been 
wondering how soon I should be able to make your 
acquaintance. IFs a great thing to keep a secret in 
the Megaphone office. Isn’t it. Lady Clara?” 

“It certainly is,” replied Mrs. Grimmond, and 
then added, as she dipped her fingers in her glass 
of water and wiped them on her cottony napkin; 
“Fm awfully tired and want to go home and into 
a dressing-sacque just as soon as ever I can. Now 
that you two young people have been properly in- 
troduced, Fve no hesitation in leaving you together.” 


CHAPTER XI 


O H, Neddy, I began to think I should never 
see you again!’’ cried Kate, the moment they 
found themselves alone. “The city frightens me — 
it’s so big and noisy and so bitterly cold and heart- 
less. I caught a glimpse of you as we came in, and 
I almost began to cry.” 

“Oh, you’ll get over that pretty quick. You’re 
just a little homesick, that’s all!” said Penfield, in- 
differently; but his face took on a look of interest 
as Kate continued: 

“And what that Mr. Penhallow told us about you 
and the other men in the office didn’t make me feel 
any better either.” 

“What did he tell you.?” demanded Ned, eagerly, 
bending across the table to catch her words. 

“I didn’t half understand it, but he said he thought 
the two opposing forces in the office were going to 
make common cause against you, just because Mr. 
Barshfield likes you and asked you out to dinner. 
Did he really do that, Neddy, and is it true that 
you’re earning all that money already — a hundred 
and a quarter.? I think it’s perfectly wonderful. 
Why, with only half that we could — ” She paused 
as Penfield broke in, ignoring her last words: 

“Yes, I went out to dinner with him last night, 
and I’m to meet him at his home next Sunday; but 
it beats me how quick such things get around.” 
107 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“Mr. Penhallow saw you in Delmonico’s/’ said 
Kate. 

“Probably sneaking around — like the rest of 
them!’’ said Penfield, savagely. “Well, they’d better 
be careful how they get up against me. I’m stronger 
now with the throne than most of those fellows that 
have been working on the paper for years before I 
was ever heard of. And I’m going to be a blamed 
sight stronger yet before I quit the game. Tell me, 
did he say anything else.^” 

“Well, he gave me the idea that there was a con- 
spiracy against you; but really, Ned, he didn’t say 
a word against you or give the idea that he was 
hostile to you. In fact, he spoke nicely about you 
and said you were getting a splendid salary.” 

“Don’t believe anything you hear about a Park 
Row salary until you’ve divided the amount by 
four!” exclaimed Penfield, with a note of annoyance 
that bordered on anger. “I only wish I had half 
the money some of those fellows get in their minds.” 

“But you are doing well, Neddy, aren’t you?” 
asked Kate, timidly, realizing with a sinking at the 
heart that now, for the first time in their intimacy, 
he was withholding his confidence from her. 

“Well enough for a beginner,” he replied, almost 
brusquely, and then made haste to add: “What 
would be wealth in Graytown is poverty in New 
York. Well, suppose we move along. I’ve got to 
go back to the office to-night, and I suppose you’re 
ready to go to bed? It’s been a hard day for you, 
hasn’t it?” he continued, with a flash of his white 
teeth that was something like the smile with which 
he had been wont to greet her in the old days, and 
which Kate, now for the first time in her life really 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


homesick, acknowledged gratefully. Another feeling, 
which she could neither understand nor name, was 
weighing down her spirits. Heart-hunger had come 
upon her for the first time. She had never been 
really in love. 

“Now, Kitty,’’ said Penfield, as he left her at the 
apartment hotel, “you’ve heard enough to-night to 
gain some sort of an idea of what I’m up against in 
the office. If you try to climb fast or high in Park 
Row there are always plenty of men — and women, 
too, for that matter — ^who’ll be glad of a chance to 
pull you down. Take a tip from me and be careful 
whom you trust, and don’t ever let any one guess 
how you stand toward me. Above all, keep your 
ears open, and if you get wise to any game that’s 
being put up against me let me know at once. Fore- 
warned is forearmed, you know, and you and I will 
have to sink or swim together in the Megaphone 
ocean. Good night, dear; remember I trust you 
and rely on you to do your best for me.” 

He was gone, with a warm pressure of the hand 
and another flash of the white teeth; and Kate 
Craven went up to her room with happiness shining 
in her face, suspicion banished from her mind, and 
the sinking gone from her heart. Neddy’s trust in 
her was as great as ever. He still depended on her 
as he had in the old Gray town days that now seemed 
so far away. Unselfishly she gloried in his success, 
deeming herself the most favored of women because 
of his dependence on her. The maternal instinct 
swelling within her breast had driven out all less 
worthy feelings. 

As a matter of fact, Penfield was building up a 
great reputation in the Megaphone office, and build- 
109 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


ing far better and more rapidly than he knew. There 
is no calling, not even the stage, in which ability 
gains recognition as quickly as in journalism — that 
is to say, when the planets are in favorable con- 
junction. Many a young reporter awakes in the 
morning to find himself famous within the confines 
of Park Row. A single news story of exceptional 
quality, a bit of vivid description, a new form of 
humorous expression, a touch of unexpected pathos, 
will be the talk of every newspaper office and the 
neighboring cafes before the sun has reached the 
meridian. And the hearty, generous praise that a 
young writer will receive from his comrades — many 
of whom are his rivals in the fierce fight for space — 
and even from drudging hacks and broken-down 
reporters who have long since seen their own hopes 
of literary achievement grow dim and vanish alto- 
gether, is a source of constant wonder to me. Every 
successful newspaper man will, I think, say that his 
earliest encouragement came to him from his own 
city-room. Even the worn-out and hopeless ones 
of the Brasserie -of Hard Times are quick to notice 
and comment in kindly, appreciative fashion on the 
work of a bright new pen. 

Penfield’s pen was flippant and irreverent rather 
than witty, and the fact that he had no background, 
so far as New York was concerned, and was imbued 
with all the small-minded man’s contempt for his 
betters gave a latitude to his flippancy and a con- 
sequent zest to his work that appealed strongly to 
Barshfield, who is himself without background of 
any sort, and has always avoided any social, politi- 
cal, or mercantile affiliations that might affect his 
newspaper. Moreover, Penfield’s long apprentice- 

IIO 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


ship in the work of carefully combing the country- 
side for every bit of neighborhood gossip had sharp- 
ened his naturally acute ‘‘news scent” to an abnor- 
mal degree, and fitted him for dealing with the 
larger and more significant affairs of metropolitan 
life, as well as with the unconsidered trifles that an 
adroit pen can transform into events of importance. 

Barshfield, who had been attracted to him from 
the first by reason of his ability as a news-gatherer 
and the feminine quality in his work, now began to 
view him in a larger light as a young man whom it 
might be wise to push forward in the direction of 
the high places in the office. Not that he had any 
intention of displacing any one of the few who oc- 
cupied the seats of the mighty on the steps of the 
throne, but because it was dangerous, in his opinion, 
to allow the recipients of his highest favors to believe 
that they could not be replaced in case of necessity. 

Although apparently unconscious of even the 
existence of such a thing as office politics beneath 
the Megaphone roof, Barshfield is quick to notice 
any move on the strategic board, while in the art 
of pitting one adversary against another he is abso- 
lutely without a peer. From the earliest years of 
his reign, following the custom of his father, he had 
sought to maintain the balance of power by “play- 
ing two favorites,” as Park Row phrased it; that is 
to say, he would divide the marks of his confidence 
and esteem between two of his employees in such 
a way that each one, though suspicious and jealous 
of the other, would render him the more efficient 
service. He is also adept in the crafty art of in- 
ducing one man to spy on another. 

Barshfield’s policy has always been to obtain the 

III 


THE GREAT MIRA G E 


best cooks he could find and let them do their best 
with whatever material the day brought to hand. 
He expects them, at least, to know how to make 
bricks without straw, so that the circulation, which 
he worships as a god, may not suffer during those 
periods when the town is quiet and sensational hap- 
penings few. But he realizes, of course, that the 
more pungent the contents of the pot, the better the 
morning’s brew, and although the news-gatherer 
never ranks in his estimation with the chef who 
prepares and seasons it to the public taste, never- 
theless he knows to the full the value of the re- 
portorial instinct. 

It happened that at the moment of which I write 
the Megaphone was without any strong reporter. 
Writers and editors it had in plenty, but there was 
no one on the staff who seemed to Barshfield to 
possess the instinct for news and the ability to gather 
it in the same degree as Penfield, who was acquiring 
a knowledge of the town with surprising familiar- 
ity, and had a remarkable knack for making ac- 
quaintances of politicians, police officers, theatrical 
folk, and other fountain-heads of news supply. By 
special orders handed down from the throne Pen- 
field received many of the most important assign- 
ments, and Barshfield never failed to read his re- 
ports with close attention, sometimes even sending 
for them in proof before the paper went to press. 
All this, of course, was soon voiced around the city- 
room, and there were not a few who began to turn 
smiling faces toward one who might soon be in a 
position to give out assignments himself. And it 
was quite true, as Penhallow had said, that Ned 
Penfield’s salary was now a hundred and twenty-five 

II2 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


dollars a week; but he had said nothing to Kate 
about the change in his fortunes. 

If Kate had been living in Graytown she would 
have had time to think about Penfield’s want of 
frankness, but her life now was so busy and so full 
of interest and excitement and novelty that she was 
quite ready to accept his assurance of continued de- 
votion at its face value, contenting herself with the 
thought that if he was half as busy as she was he 
had no time to fall in love with any one else. A still 
greater source of consolation to her was the knowl- 
edge of his need of her help and counsel in the diffi- 
cult fight that she saw looming up before them both. 
For of course they must stand or fall together; of 
that there could be no manner of doubt. Her own 
life was becoming richer day by day in interest and 
in the delights of easily acquired knowledge and ex- 
perience. By exercise of her own good taste and 
the small sum of money she had brought from home, 
she soon altered her dress so as to present a distinct- 
ly urban appearance — a change that was instantly 
noted by the connoisseurs of the staff, and elicited 
warm expressions of approval from Lady Clara, who 
had always feared to wound her feelings by criticizing 
her attire. 

‘‘Kate,” said this excellent woman, one day as 
they were lunching together, “I want you to go up 
and interview Mrs. Chilton-Smythe for me.” 

“What!” exclaimed the young girl, in amazement. 
“That famous society woman? She’d never see me 
in the world.” 

“She’ll see you fast enough,” said Lady Clara, 
confidently. “Just go up there and send in your 
card and tell her you want to get her views on any 

113 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


old thing you happen to think of.” And Kate, with 
an awful sinking in her heart, went away on her fool- 
ish mission. 

Two hours later she returned, her face radiant 
with delight, bearing in her hands a bunch of violets 
and a large brown envelope from which she drew 
and proudly exhibited a signed photograph of the 
famous leader of fashion. 

‘T was never so surprised in my life!” she cried, 
excitedly. “She wasn’t a bit stuck up or haughty, 
but sent for me to come up to her sitting-room — ” 

“Call it a boudoir in your story,” interposed Lady 
Clara. 

“And when she found I was new to the inter- 
viewing business she seemed to take a real interest, 
and invited me to come and see her whenever I 
wanted material for a nice article. Then she told 
me a whole lot about a summer hotel for working- 
girls she’s getting up — I’ve enough for nearly a 
volume — and when I was coming away she gave me 
these lovely flowers and this photograph of herself, 
with permission to use it in the paper. She said all 
the other papers wanted it, but she’d rather that I 
had it. She was so handsome and so beautifully 
dressed that I think I ought to write something aw- 
fully nice about her.” 

A few days later Kate received a flattering note 
from Mrs. Chilton-Smythe thanking her for her kind 
mention of the working-girls’ hotel and compli- 
menting her on her fine literary style. From this 
time on she did a great deal of interviewing, and 
soon found that among the minor celebrities — and 
not a few of the great ones — a reporter was a guest 
to be courted rather than shunned. Not a day 
114 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


passed that did not add to the number of her ac- 
quaintances. She was becoming friendly, too, with 
some of the members of the staff, notably Telford, 
who frequently stopped for a brief chat. One morn- 
ing she found a note on her desk from him asking 
her to go to the theater with him that evening. He 
was often called upon to criticize plays. It was not 
much of a piece, he said, but if it bored her they 
could come away early. The idea of leaving any 
‘‘show’’ before the last fall of the curtain seemed 
astounding to her, for a playhouse was to her a 
veritable place of enchantment. 

“Do you think it will be quite proper for me to 
go with him?” she inquired of Lady Clara; and the 
other laughed heartily at her rural simplicity. 

“Why shouldn’t you go if you want to?” she de- 
manded. “My dear,” she continued, “take a tip 
from me and don’t miss any of the pleasures of this 
life just because you’re afraid they’re not proper. 
There are not so many innocent pleasures coming 
our way that we can afford to let any of them get 
by.” 

As the night was clear, they walked to the theater, 
or, rather, it seemed to Kate that they were swept 
along by the great, hurrying crowd of pleasure- 
seekers that filled the sidewalks of Broadway and 
poured into the open doors of the playhouses. 

The piece was a musical comedy with foolish songs 
sung by a throaty tenor and a bevy of girls in a suc- 
cession of costumes that seemed to shrink as the 
evening wore on. Never before had Kate seen 
women clad in tights or wearing such low-cut 
bodices, but it did not shock her. On the contrary, 
the sight of women who had emancipated themselves 

9 IIS 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


from the thraldom of skirts gave her new courage 
and raised her spirits. She even wondered how it 
would feel to wear such clothes herself, and the mis- 
chievous thought of presenting herself at the oiflice 
clad in flesh- colored tights seized her fancy and 
brought a smile to her face that showed her dimples 
to the best advantage. 

When the play was over they went to a near-by 
district telegraph office, where Telford wrote his 
notice in company with two or three other critics 
similarly employed, while Kate sat beside him hum- 
ming the air with which the audience had been 
“played out’^ by the theater orchestra — the man- 
agement having an interest in the “song rights” — 
and smiling happily to herself. 

“And now for something to eat,” said Telford, as 
he handed his copy to a messenger-boy and bade 
him hurry to the Megaphone office at top speed. 
They found seats at a small table in a great garish 
restaurant that he called a “lobster-palace,” and 
which his companion thought even more interesting 
than the French table d'hote. Here she beheld for 
the first time in her life a typical Broadway supper 
crowd, and for several minutes she gazed about her, 
fascinated at the spectacle. Then Telford, having 
given his order to the waiter, began to point out the 
local celebrities. 

“That man at the next table is a very distin- 
guished gambler temporarily out of business because 
of a reform wave that is now sweeping over the 
town. You’d never guess the calling of that gentle- 
man with the bright, restless eyes who’s sitting with 
the pretty woman in blue. He’s one of the slickest 
confidence men on Broadway, and he, too, is sufFer- 

ii6 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


ing from the great business depression caused by 
reform. Do you recognize the lady? You saw her 
an hour ago, but in a different dress.’’ 

‘‘That’s the one that wore pink tights!” cried 
Kate, bending forward eagerly. It seemed to her 
wonderful to find herself so close to the actress who 
had sung and danced before her on the stage but 
an hour ago. She was pretty, too, in her street dress, 
but not so attractive as in her tights and low-cut 
bodice. Kate did not know exactly what a con- 
fidence man was, but she supposed he was some sort 
of swindler, and she wondered how a woman of such 
beauty and distinction should happen to choose a 
criminal as a companion. She had yet to learn that 
on Broadway — and on Fifth Avenue, too— the line 
of demarcation between honesty and crime is not 
always recognized or sharply defined. 

“I understand he’s quite a friend of hers,” said « 
Telford, carelessly, as if such an intimacy were a 
common thing in New York. “I see they’re all on 
hand to-night — the cream of Broadway society.” 

And he indicated, one after another, bookmakers, 
players, gray-haired roues, foolish sons of wealthy 
parents, famous prize-fighters, and the heroine of 
an unsavory divorce scandal. The froth and bubble 
of Broadway, so often mistaken for the real life of 
the town, were certainly in evidence that night, to 
say nothing of the great mob of out-of-town and 
suburban strangers who had come to look on, and 
who, like Kate, beheld a mirage and thought it was 
the real city. 

Into Kate’s eager, receptive mind there suddenly 
crept an unbidden thought of her mother, and she 
wondered what she would say if she could see her 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


here in this gaudy eating-house, learning the sinful 
ways of the town from the lips of a man whom she 
had known but a few short weeks. Already she was 
saying to herself, “Mother doesn’t understand these 
things,” which is just what thousands of girls have 
said during their initiate into metropolitan ways. 
But there was too much to be seen and learned to- 
night to leave time for fruitless speculation, and 
Kate’s eyes were soon fixed on a group of men and 
women who were seating themselves at a near-by 
table. One of the party attracted her attention by 
reason of his handsome face, immaculate evening 
clothes, and general air of what she thought was the 
distinction bred of wealth and assured position. He 
seemed to be on the best of terms with the woman 
next him, for she laughed gaily as he said something 
to her in a low voice, and the look that she gave him 
was one of unmistakable liking. The woman was 
handsome in a striking way, with a full figure that 
had not yet become obese, and superb red hair. Her 
dress was not only costly, but in good taste and ex- 
tremely becoming, and diamonds glittered on her 
fingers and her corsage. 

“What magnificent clothes that woman wears!” 
said Kate. “She must cost her husband a lot of 
money.” 

Telford turned in his seat to glance at the new 
arrivals, and then made answer, “ Some other wom- 
an’s husband must have paid for that dress.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Kate, ingenuously. 
“Is it the proper thing in New York for women to 
accept presents of dresses and hats and furs from 
the husbands of their friends?” 

The rewrite-man gazed thoughtfully at her over 

ii8 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


the tops of his eye-glasses. “Do you mean to say 
that you don’t understand me, or is this merely one 
of your little pleasantries.?” he asked. 

“Oh, I understood what you said, but it seemed 
funny, that’s all,” replied Kate, in tones that showed 
her complete ignorance of the situation. 

“It is a funny custom, I admit,” he said, gravely. 
“Lady Clara knows how it originated and why it is 
still kept up in certain grades of society. Ask her 
about it when you get home to-night, and tell her 
that you saw some famous society women wearing 
particularly gorgeous garments.” 

As Kate entered the apartment hotel in which she 
lived she turned a beaming face on her companion 
and shook his hand cordially. “You’ve given me a 
perfectly splendid evening,” she said, “and I don’t 
know how to thank you.” 

And Telford walked away wondering if there could 
be found in the city of New York a girl as naive and 
innocent and at the same time as interesting as this 
toiler of the Woman’s Page. 


CHAPTER XII 


K ate found Lady Clara dozing in an arm-chair 
before the gas -log in the dining-room. “I 
wondered if you would come home hungry/’ she 
said, as she roused herself and sat rubbing her eyes. 

“Bless your dear heart! IVe had lots to eat and 
the first mug of ale I ever drank in my life!” cried 
Kate, planting an affectionate kiss on her friend’s 
cheek. “And I’ve had a perfectly splendid time, 
too. Do you know it’s the first time I ever saw a 
really good show? There was the prettiest song in 
it. I’ve been humming it all the way home. And, 
darling, there were some of the prettiest girls on the 
stage, dancing and singing, and some of them in 
tights! They did look lovely, but not any better 
than I would if I could dress that way. I think I’d 
rather be an actress than a writer if I could get a 
chance.” 

She gathered up her skirts and danced about the 
room with a grace and agility that were a complete 
surprise to the elder woman, who had hitherto known 
her only as a demure maiden with no thought for 
anything but her work. She wondered if this whirl- 
ing vision of black-silk stockings, white ruffles, and 
flushed, laughing face could be the same girl who had 
asked her that very morning if it would be “quite 
proper” for her to go to the theater with a man. 
“There’s another thing I want to ask,” said Kate, 
120 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


pausing in her dance, but still holding up her skirts. 
“Do ladies in New York accept presents of dresses 
and hats from the husbands of their friends?’’ 

“What in the world put that in your head?” 

“Mr. Telford told me to ask you. There was a 
society woman in the restaurant who was mag- 
nificently dressed, and he said she got her clothes 
from some other woman’s husband.” 

Mrs. Grimmond threw herself back in her chair 
and laughed as her assistant of the Woman’s Page 
had never seen her laugh before. 

“Kate Craven,” she cried, “you have no idea how 
funny you are standing there with your skirts up 
over your knees asking such an innocent question. 
The proper costume for the part you’re playing now 
is a white-muslin frock to your boot-tops and your 
hair in two pigtails down your back. That woman’s 
husband probably was lost in the shuffle long ago, 
and so the poor thing is obliged to rely on any other 
husband that happens along.” 

“So that’s why Mr. Telford didn’t tell me who 
she was? She’s a bad woman, is she? I wish I’d 
looked at her closer. I never saw a bad woman 
before — at least, not one of her kind.” 

“You would have seen a very good imitation of one 
if you’d looked in the glass a minute ago,” retorted 
Lady Clara, dryly. 

“Are there many such in the city?” 

“Shoals of them.” ^ 

“I think the histories of some of them must be 
very interesting. Do youk now any of these women ?” 

“Go to bed!” cried Lady Clara, suddenly rising 
and turning off the electric light. 

Kate Craven was by no means ignorant of what 
121 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


are called the “mysteries of life/’ because everybody, 
especially the country-bred girl, knows all about 
them; but the only “bad women” of whom she had 
hitherto had any cognizance had been pitiable ob- 
jects shunned by all decent folk and visibly suffer- 
ing for their sins. Now she had seen for the first 
time in her life a courtesan in the full pride and 
glory of her calling, courted rather than shunned, 
bowing right and left to her acquaintances, and 
receiving cordial recognition in return, and now — 
she scarcely knew why — the thought of this woman 
triumphing over established conventions of society 
and the prejudices of her sex thrilled her with a 
secret joy. 

Like many good women, Kate Craven was curious 
in regard to the sides of life from which she had been 
debarred by the respectability of her birth and up- 
bringing. The mystery surrounding the life of a 
woman beyond the pale of society appealed to her 
imagination, and she wished now that she had ques- 
tioned Telford more closely about her career. That 
this one’s fall had been due to some love affair she 
did not doubt, and it was this element of romance 
that appealed strongly to her soul, already awa- 
kened to sentimental influences by a course of edify- 
ing “heart-interest” stories. Here was a real love 
tragedy, and she determined to question Telford 
without delay. 

Let it be understood that Kate was not a prurient 
young woman. She was simply, like many of the 
best of her sex, extremely inquisitive. As she fell 
asleep that night her mind was filled with confused 
thoughts of girls — among them herself — in flesh- 
colored tights, and Ernest Telford in his role of 
122 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


mentor. For once Penfield was absent from her 
dreams. 

The wished-for opportunity to increase her store 
of worldly knowledge came about a week later, when 
the rewrite-man, meeting her on her way down-town, 
suggested that they should have luncheon together 
at a little French restaurant. As soon as the waiter 
had taken their order Kate remarked with a frank- 
ness that was even a greater surprise to herself than 
it was to him: 

“I asked Mrs. Grimmond about that woman, and 
she told me how she got her dresses. Now, I wish 
you’d tell me more about her and her kind.” 

Telford glanced keenly at her over the tops of his 
glasses and said: “You seem to be getting on rapid- 
ly. You were so innocent the other night that I 
was sorry I even hinted at her means of livelihood. 
What do you wish me to tell you?” 

“Everything that it will be proper for me to hear. 
I’m curious to learn all I can about women of her 
class, the romance of their lives, how they live, and 
what becomes of them in the end.” 

“It seems to me,” said the other, “that the term 
‘proper for you to hear’ is rather an elastic one. I 
should hate to offend you, and yet I don’t know 
where, in your mind, propriety ends and impro- 
priety begins.” 

“I can trust you,” said Kate, simply. 

“I’m afraid that romance, as you call it, has not 
played a very important part in Maude Thorn- 
bright’s life,” said Telford, speaking slowly and 
thoughtfully. “Her husband was a decent enough 
fellow, but without ambition, and Maude had tastes 
in the way of champagne, fine clothes, and auto- 
123 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


mobile-scorching that he was not able to gratify. 
As you may have noticed the other night, she is still 
a good-looking woman. A few years ago she was a 
beauty, and if a beautiful woman starves in this 
town it’s either through her own fault or her own 
virtue. Ever since I’ve known her — and that’s a 
matter of about five years — Maude has been a high- 
flier. While her husband was working in a down- 
town office she would be floating about Broadway, 
going to matinees, drinking cocktails with the sort 
of people that a pretty woman can easily scrape ac- 
quaintance with, and spending every cent she could 
lay her hands on. She ran her husband so deeply 
in debt that he had to call a halt, and of course if 
he couldn’t pay for her clothes some one else had 
to, and there you are. I hope I haven’t crossed the 
propriety line?” 

“Not yet,” rejoined Kate. “Now go on and tell 
me the rest of her story. Do you really know her? 
How did you get acquainted with such a person?” 

A smile flitted across the other’s face. “Such per- 
sons are not hard to know,” he replied. “Indeed, 
the difficulty in this town is to avoid knowing them. 
I really don’t remember how I got acquainted with 
Maude, but I’ve known her quite a while, and once 
in a while we sit down together and have a chin. 
She’s quite amusing in a way. But she’s without 
heart, and where there’s no heart there’s no ro- 
mance.” 

“You haven’t told me yet who pays for her 
clothes.” 

“I think that precious privilege is shared by a 
little group of her admirers.” 

Kate’s eyes fell before Telford’s cynical smile, 
124 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


and a slight color suffused her cheek as the last shred 
of romance was stripped from Maude Thornbright, 
leaving only sordid harlotry. 

‘‘What will be her end?” she asked. “With her 
extravagant habits she can’t save any money, and 
the time will come when men will cease to pay for 
her clothes.” 

“By that time,” rejoined the other, “she will have 
salted away enough to make her declining years 
comfortable, and perhaps enable her to provide for 
some man like that young fellow who sat next her 
the other night.” 

The young girl’s face assumed a look of disgust 
that she did not attempt to hide. Except for her 
clothes and jewels and the deference with which she 
was treated, this woman, who had awakened her 
interest and around whom she had woven a romance, 
was precisely the same as the few wretched members 
of the great sisterhood whom she had seen in Gray- 
town. Women do not more readily forgive those 
who rob them of their illusions than they do those 
who steal their pocketbooks, and she was sorry 
now that she had questioned Telford so eagerly — 
sorry for her own folly and secretly annoyed with 
him for answering her so plainly. But there was still 
one question that she must ask, and she put it to 
him bluntly: 

“Do you mean to tell me that a woman of that 
sort supports a man?” 

“Even the most selfish of them contrive to do that. 
You see, every woman, no matter how bad she may 
be, has somewhere in her heart a soft spot in the 
shape of a longing to be loved, and so long as that 
soft spot exists there will always be some man to 
125 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


play on it. By the way, you noticed how that young 
man was dressed — I remember now that you spoke 
of it.” 

“He was certainly beautifully dressed. There 
was something in his manner of wearing his clothes, 
or perhaps it was the clothes he had on, that some- 
how made him seem an interesting personality.” 

“There was something either in his clothes or his 
manner of wearing them that told me that a woman 
had paid for them,” replied Telford. “Remember, 
whenever you see a man whose style of dress appeals 
to you, as this man’s did, not to trust him till you 
find out who has paid his bills. I think it’s time for 
us to be going down to the office. I trust that this 
has been an instructive session?” 

As they walked toward Broadway Kate noticed 
two or three young men in cheap, gaudy attire 
lounging in front of a corner saloon smoking cig- 
arettes and gazing with evil eyes at the girls who 
went by. 

“What terrible-looking men!” she exclaimed, 
flushing indignantly under the lewd glances that 
they turned toward her. 

“Then you don’t regard them as interesting per- 
sonalities?” remarked Telford. “You ought to, 
for they are of the same class as that young man 
whom you saw in the restaurant, but with this dif- 
ference, that they are not nearly as well dressed. 
By the way, I didn’t tell you who that attractive 
youth is. Well, he’s Lady Clara’s son.” 

The young country girl stopped short and stared 
at her companion in amazement. “Lady Clara’s son! 
And that woman supports him!” she gasped. 

“Yes, she and his mother together. That’s what 
126 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


keeps Lady Clara poor. It’s her own fault, too, in 
a way, for it was she who first brought the two 
together. Maude came into the focus about two 
years ago in some sensational way, and Lady Clara 
was sent out on the story. There was a sentimental 
side to it, of which the paper was not slow to take 
advantage, and Maude became a daily feature. 
That was all right from a business point of view, 
but Lady Clara made the mistake of believing what 
she wrote herself, and so she asked this woman to 
her flat and told her son to be nice to her, and he 
obeyed her so implicitly that when Maude went 
away he went with her, and she’s been looking after 
him ever since.” 

‘‘And does poor Lady Clara never see him now?” 
asked Kate. 

“Never except on salary-day; then he’s quite 
apt to turn up.” 

And Kate was so taken up with all her newly 
acquired knowledge that she entirely forgot to pump 
Telford about the office cabal against Penfield. 
Forgotten now was Maude Thornbright, crowded 
out of her mind by pitying thoughts of poor Lady 
Clara and the son who remembered her only on 
salary-day. 

Too busy that afternoon to think of anything 
but the necessity for getting the Woman’s Page to 
press before nightfall, it was not until after a very 
late dinner that Kate found time to stretch herself 
on the couch in front of the cheerful gas-log, ostensi- 
bly to read, but in reality to digest some of her 
recently acquired knowledge. Since coming to the 
city the power and desirability of wealth had taken 
a strong hold on her imagination, and in that luxuri- 
127 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


ous, brilliantly lighted, over-decorated lobster-palace 
she had found herself for the first time face to face 
with the visible symbol of that power. Her first 
wonderment as to where the money came from was 
quickly followed by the query, logically next in 
order, ‘‘Where does it all go to?'’ 

The first of these questions not even the most 
learned student can answer, but as Kate listened to 
Telford's disquisition the thought that it was the 
women who absorbed and spent it all gradually 
took possession of her brain and would not be dis- 
lodged. It was the men who paid for the suppers, 
tossing the greenbacks to the waiters as carelessly 
as if they had found them in the streets instead of 
earning them, while the women ate and drank with 
superb indifference to cost. It was the women who 
wore the costly dresses; it was on feminine arms and 
necks and bosoms that the diamonds gleamed with 
such marvelous brilliancy. Carrying her specula- 
tions still further, she realized, wondering the while 
why the thought had not occurred to her before, 
that it was the sex element in all its infinite variety 
of manifestation and mystery that had animated 
the entire human fabric and given to the spectacle 
its charm and color. She tried to imagine the same 
scene with the women eliminated, and it crumbled 
before her mental vision into a vulgar herd of selfish, 
feeding animals — pigs crowding about a trough. 


CHAPTER XIII 


ERTAINLY Kate Craven was learning fast. 



A single evening at the theater and in a restau- 
rant had taught her more about the power wielded 
by her sex over men than she had ever learned from 
any book of philosophy on her mother’s shelves. 
She had seen grave men of affairs applauding women 
in scanty attire who sang foolish songs and smiled 
down upon them with painted lips. Perhaps it was 
in that manner that Salome sang and danced before 
Herod. In the light of her new knowledge it no 
longer seemed strange that he should have rewarded 
her with the head of John the Baptist on a charger. 
Had not Lady Clara’s son brought his mother’s 
heart and laid it at the feet of Maude Thornbright.f* 

She saw now only too plainly what this sex-power 
was, and her face flushed at the thought; for she 
understood the meaning in the eyes of the men who 
looked her over as if appraising her good points; she 
knew why their glances had awakened in her feel- 
ings of repulsion and apprehension, and now a fierce 
protest against the thraldom of skirts arose in her 
soul. 

She had often read of the power of women over 
men, but never before had she seen such convincing 
evidence of it. It seemed to her, too, that the 
dividing-line laid down by custom and propriety 
between good women and bad no longer existed. 


129 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Lady Clara had taken Maude Thornbright into her 
own home — to her own sorrow. Telford, unques- 
tionably a man of gentle breeding, admitted his 
acquaintance with that unspeakable creature as if 
it were a matter of course, and apparently derived 
pleasure from her society. She found herself won- 
dering how many women of this sort he consorted 
with and how intimately he knew them. The 
thought that he might at that very moment be in 
the power of one of them brought a quick flush to 
her cheek. 

She rose hurriedly from her chair and glanced at 
her watch. It was half past ten, and she went to 
bed with a profound feeling of disgust in her heart 
for women as well as men. 

On Sunday she received a note from Penfield ask- 
ing her to dine with him at a quiet little French 
restaurant which was their usual place of meeting. 
They were no sooner seated than he began: 

‘‘You haven’t heard anything about any office 
changes, have you.?” 

Kate had long since noticed that when Penfield 
asked her to dine with him it was for the purpose of 
discussing his own aflPairs, and that save for a few 
perfunctory questions as to how she was getting 
along he seldom betrayed any special interest in 
hers. 

“I can’t quite make it out,” he said, “but there’s 
something in the wind, and I’ve got a sort of idea 
that it’s going to affect me. You see, nobody tells 
me anything because they know I’m closer to the 
throne than most of them — in fact. I’m about the 
only one in the city-room that Barshfield ever sends 
for, and that makes them all suspicious and jealous. 

130 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Oh, they’re polite enough to my face, but I can see 
with half an eye that they don’t like the quick way 
Fve gone ahead since I came here.” 

Penfield undoubtedly had gone ahead since his 
arrival in New York a brassy, green, young country 
reporter with nothing but his keen news sense to 
aid him in his fight for existence. As Kate looked 
at him now she saw but little save the red cheeks 
and the coal-black eyes to remind her of the local 
editor of the Graytown Eagle, and even the cheeks 
had paled a little and become puffy from good living. 
He was well dressed and had a self-confident, almost 
an urban manner, and it was apparent that he prided 
himself on being a complete man of the world. That 
he was daily becoming more and more self-centered 
she had long since been forced to acknowledge, and 
the suspicion that he was gradually growing away 
from her brought bitterness to her heart whenever 
she allowed herself to think of it. To-night, how- 
ever, he seemed more like the Ned Penfield of 
Graytown, speaking with all his old-time frank 
ness, asking her counsel and aid, and plainly show- 
ing his great need of her. 

Now the little restaurant in which they sat was 
as yet undiscovered by that great ravening band 
who dine nightly at cheap table d^hotes and, migra- 
tory as the wild fowl, are for ever seeking new feeding- 
grounds. Situated on Houston Street many blocks 
to the west of the main ways of travel between up- 
town and down, it was frequented almost entirely 
by foreigners, for the most part French and Italians. 
It was Kate who had discovered the place while 
working on a ‘‘heart-interest” story in the neigh- 
borhood, and both she and Penfield regarded it as 

10 131 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


a distinct “find,” and agreed to keep their discovery 
to themselves. But there is no knowledge harder to 
lock in one’s own bosom than the exact location of 
a cheap restaurant which is also a good one, and so 
it happened that on this night Macy, who had al- 
ready visited the place, determined to taste once 
more the excellent chicken en casserole to which it 
owed its local renown. 

Long years of service in the various hostile camps 
of Park Row had imparted to Macy’s native wits 
a peculiarly keen edge, so that even when outside 
the office walls he might be said to pick his way 
with caution while listening with ear as sharp as a 
partridge’s to every word let fall within his hearing. 
Following his usual custom, he glanced through the 
open door of the little eating-place before entering, 
and was amazed to see Kate and Penfield, with their 
heads bent across a small table, engaged in intimate 
conversation. Softly Mr. Macy turned on his heel 
to withdraw unobserved, but his quick eye caught 
a glimpse of Kate as she placed her hand on her 
companion’s arm in intimate fashion, and his still 
quicker ear took cognizance of her “Neddy, dear,” 
uttered with a note of true affection that was un- 
mistakable to a sense as highly trained and rich 
in experience and subtle knowledge as that of the 
wily city editor. 

Now, in the fierce rivalry engendered by office 
politics two heads are notoriously superior to one, 
and when one of these heads belongs to a woman 
it is a combination greatly to be feared. In this 
case not only was the woman’s head a pretty one, 
but the combination was one hitherto unsuspected, 
even by the usually astute city editor, who never 
132 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


failed to observe carefully the conduct of every 
young woman of the staff in order that he might be 
the first to detect any sign of coalition with any of 
his rivals. 

Mr. Macy ate his chicken en casserole elsewhere 
that night, and while he ate he pondered. 

Meanwhile the two conspirators, unconscious of 
the fact that they had been discovered, ate and 
talked across the board. 

“I confess I can’t understand it,” said Penfield. 
‘‘I’m quite sure that somebody is framing up some- 
thing against me, but I can’t find out who it is or 
what sort of a job they’re putting up.” 

“Don’t you think that both Mr. Vanderlip and 
Mr. Macy would be glad to see you out of the 
way.?” asked Kate. 

“Why, they’re the only real friends I’ve got in 
the office,” he retorted. “I owe every good assign- 
ment I’ve had to one or the other of them, and I 
happen to know that they both speak well of me to 
the old man, because he told me so himself. What’s 
more, Macy asked me to dinner the other night, and 
I often lunch with Vanderlip.” 

“Beware of the Greeks bearing gifts,” said Kate, 
shrewdly. 

“But these two Greeks don’t pull together, be- 
cause they hate each other like poison. What I 
think is that each man would like to have me on his 
side in case it comes to a show-down between them. 
No, Kitty, I very much fear that this time you’re 
on the wrong track, though as a general thing you’re 
quite apt to be right.” 

They talked on for fully an hour without arriving 
at any definite conclusion, and Penfield threw dis- 

133 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


cretion to the winds and accompanied Kate home. 
Lady Clara was out, and they sat before the gas-log 
for a long time recalling the old days in Graytown 
and trying to solve the problem that now confronted 
them. It was after ten when Penfield rose to go, 
and as they stood together on the hearth-rug he 
folded Kate in his arms and kissed her, if not with 
passion, at least with something like real affection, 
saying: 

“You’re certainly the truest friend and the best 
pal that a man ever had. I don’t know what I 
should do without you, Kitty, darling.” 

And at these lover-like words Kate’s starved heart 
fluttered in her breast, while the color came into her 
face and her eyes grew dim. She had been kept 
heart -hungry so long that a brief caress, a few 
affectionate words, the touch of his warm lips to 
hers stirred her soul to its very depths and swept 
from her mind all doubt of his sincerity and all 
recollection of his selfishness and indifference. He 
was still a true friend to be trusted and depended on 
no matter what might happen, and she fell asleep 
to dream of him. 

I have already alluded to Miss Minturn, the sal- 
low, lynx-eyed, sharp-featured young woman who 
occupied a desk in Lady Clara’s office. She was a 
creature of Macy’s, a cousin in about the third de- 
gree, whose name he had added to the pay-roll 
with such consummate skill that not even the most 
astute minds in the office suspected his handiwork. 
To him she owed her position; it was he who kept 
it for her. In return for his kindness she kept con- 
stant watch and ward over his interests, so far as 
affairs in the hen-coop could affect them, and con- 
134 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


veyed to his ears every bit of office gossip that she 
heard. And as the hen-coop was a rallying and dis- 
tributing point for all these unconsidered trifles of 
speech, her duties were by no means light. She had 
been suspicious of and hostile to Kate Craven from 
the very first because she saw in her a possible rival 
in the race for advancement, and these feelings 
became all the more keen as she noticed the growing 
intimacy between the new-comer and Lady Clara. 
Nor could she remain blind to the fact that this un- 
trained, inexperienced young country girl was rapid- 
ly developing into an extremely good writer — by far 
the best of her sex on the paper. Absorbed by her 
own jealousy, she had never regarded Kate as a 
factor of the slightest importance in the game of 
office politics or as a menace to any one but herself. 
Least of all had she thought of her as an ally of Pen- 
field, who seldom came into the hen-coop except 
to see Lady Clara on matters of office business. 

The day after the affair of the French restaurant 
Mr. Macy, whose brain had in the mean time been 
working with even more than its usual activity and 
cunning, sent a note to Lady Clara asking if she could 
spare one of the ladies of her staff to go out on a city 
story. He had already made sure that Miss Min- 
turn was the only one available. When the latter 
presented herself at his desk he said coldly: 

‘‘How is it that you have never given me a par- 
ticle of information about this Miss Craven who sits 
at your very elbow You must realize, Caroline, 
that it was a difficult thing for me to put you on 
Mr. Barshfleld’s pay-roll, and you may also know 
that there have been times when it has not been 
easy to keep you there. The least you can do for 

135 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


me is to keep your eyes open and report to me any 
underhand work that might affect Mr. Barshlield’s 
interests.’’ 

“I don’t know much about her, and what I do 
know I don’t like!” exclaimed Miss Minturn, in 
flurried tones, for the thought of losing her job was 
not a pleasant one. 

‘‘What is there about her that you don’t like?” 
asked the city editor in his quietest accents. 

“Mrs. Grimmond has her living with her, and gives 
her all the best assignments and does everything she 
can to push her along. She doesn’t seem to remem- 
ber that I was on the paper three years before she 
came here.” 

“I can’t see how that can affect Mr. Barshfield’s 
interests,” replied Macy. “So long as she does her 
work well Mrs. Grimmond is perfectly right to give 
her good assignments, and it ill becomes a young 
woman in your position to show any jealousy of her. 
Have you noticed if she has any intimate friends 
among the men of the staff?” 

“I heard her speak of going to the theater with 
Mr. Telford, but I never saw her talking to any one 
else.” 

“I don’t think your eyes are as sharp as they used 
to be,” rejoined Macy. “She seems to be new to 
New York. What part of the country does she hail 
from ?” 

“Some little village near Utica, she says.” 

“Indeed! And doesn’t Mr. Penfield come from 
some town in that region?” 

“I believe he does,” replied Miss Minturn, as light 
began to dawn on her mind. And, seeing this, the 
city editor dropped the matter and proceeded to 
136 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


explain the work for which he had ostensibly sum- 
moned her. 

After Miss Minturn’s departure Macy remained 
for a long time engaged in his frequent pastime of 
earnest thinking. It had suddenly been borne in 
upon him that this young girl from ‘‘somewhere near 
Utica/’ whom he had regarded as a mere pawn on 
the board, albeit a very pretty one, was in reality a 
figure of distinct importance in the struggle that lay 
before him. 

The frequent feminine touches in Penfield’s work 
that had always appealed so strongly to Barshfield 
had been a mystery to him, too, but it all seemed 
plain now. It was this little country girl, his sweet- 
heart, perhaps, who had supplied them. Continuing 
his speculations still further, he began to see with a 
clearer vision. The girl had been smuggled into the 
office — probably with the connivance of Mrs. Grim- 
mond — in order that she might aid him in his schemes. 
Hers was the ability that had brought him so rapidly 
to the front; hers were those fine flashes of feminine 
intuition that had won the high praise of their chief. 

Having solved to his own satisfaction this puzzling 
problem, the astute city editor next turned his at- 
tention to the still more important question of how 
to break up the alliance. And if at the same time 
he could attach this clever, handsome young woman 
to his own chariot wheels, why, so much the better. 
Then he would gladly get rid of Miss Minturn, who, 
he felt, had neglected his interests. 

As every chess-player knows, few games are won 
without the sacrifice of many pawns on both sides, 
and he who would play office politics successfully 
must harden his heart to the tears and the pleadings 

137 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


of the little pawns who are swept ruthlessly from 
the board whenever the necessity arises. Generally 
speaking, neither Macy nor Vanderlip would hesitate 
to deprive a young girl of her means of livelihood to 
further his own ends. But now as this adroit politi- 
cian sat scheming at his desk his conscience began 
to trouble him. No one knew better than John 
Macy what the struggle for existence in a big city 
meant to young women without money, friends, or 
influence. There came back to him now a memory 
that he had never been able to put completely out 
of his mind of a girl who had accosted him brazenly 
on Broadway one night and then turned suddenly 
away, but not before he had recognized her as the 
poor little pawn whom he himself had sacrificed to 
make room for Miss Minturn. He did not wish any 
more memories of that sort to dog his footsteps, and 
the more he thought of Kate Craven’s pretty face 
and evident ignorance of worldly ways, the more 
he wished to avoid the sacrifice. Or, if it were found 
absolutely necessary, some one else must sign the 
warrant. 


CHAPTER XIV 



HE problem was a complex and difficult one, 


^ and he was still brooding over it when Tops 
thrust his head through the door to tell him that 
Mr. Barshfield desired to see him in his private office. 
He found his chief in consultation with Penfield, 
and he noticed with inward delight that the latter’s 
attitude was one of easy self-confidence, almost 
imperceptibly touched with familiarity of the sort 
that Barshfield had never been known to tolerate. 
It may be said in passing that Macy owed his posi- 
tion largely to his intimate knowledge of his employ- 
er’s personal peculiarities and idiosyncrasies, his likes 
and dislikes, and, above all, his ideas as to what was 
and what was not good journalism. To him every 
glance of the royal eye, every tilt of the royal nose, 
every twist of the royal mouth was as the printed 
page of an open book. Even before his chief had 
opened his lips he read in his smooth-shaven, well- 
bred face the unmistakable sign and portent of 
eager interest, probably in some new scheme for 
circulation. 

‘‘Mr. Penfield thinks,” began Barshfield, speaking 
very rapidly, as he always did when enthusiastic 
over some new project, “that the convention of the 
Woman’s Betterment Clubs in Chicago next week 
ought to be covered very fully. It’s a matter of 
interest to thousands of women in New York as 


139 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


well as in other cities,, and I think it’s a good chance 
to make a bid for out-of-town circulation.” 

“Very good,” replied the city editor; “whom did 
you think of sending?” 

“I hadn’t got as far as that yet. I suppose some 
one from the Woman’s Page. But what do you 
think of the idea?” 

When an adroit Park Row politician has marked 
a man for execution he always seconds his sug- 
gestions with every appearance of heartiness, es- 
pecially if they have already received the royal 
approval. Therefore Mr. Macy hastened to make 
answer in tones of enthusiasm. 

“I think it’s a capital idea — quite worthy of the 
brain from which it sprang. But just at this mo- 
ment I can’t think of any one we can send there. 
We’re short-handed in the city-room, and we can’t 
take Mrs. Grimmond olF her desk. How about that 
Miss Craven? She’s been doing some pretty good 
work on the Woman’s Page, and I think she’ll get 
away with this job all right. I’ll send for her if you 
like.” And a moment later Tops, with a new defer- 
ence in his manner, bore the astounding summons 
to the hen-coop. 

Kate entered the royal presence firmly believing 
that she was about to be discharged, though if she 
had been more familiar with Park Row methods 
she would have known that dismissal is accomplished 
with but scant ceremony. She was quickly reassured, 
however, by the gracious manner in which Barshfield 
received her, begged her to be seated, and then 
asked her if she thought she could “cover” the 
Chicago women’s convention. As though in a haze 
she saw Penfield and assumed quite naturally that 
140 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


it was he who had recommended her to his chief; 
and the thought that, despite his apparent neglect, 
he still had her interests at heart, made her in- 
describably happy. Strengthened by the belief that 
he was nodding encouragement to her through the 
haze, she answered with a modesty that was not lost on 
her keenly watchful chief that she would do her best. 

‘‘Fm quite sure you will,^’ he said, smilingly; and 
the next morning saw Kate embarking on a journey 
longer than any she had ever undertaken in her life. 

“A very pretty girl,” remarked Barshfield, as 
Kate departed from his private office. “Do you 
know where she comes from?” 

“Somewhere in New England, I think,” replied 
Macy, carelessly; but Penfield, as the city editor 
shrewdly noticed, even while studiously averting his 
eyes, made no answer. 

Arriving in Chicago, Kate hastened to the huge 
hotel where a room had been engaged for her by 
telegraph, and proceeded without delay to make 
herself as attractive as her wardrobe would permit. 
It was in the ball-room of this hostelry that the con- 
vention was to be held, and already a babel of high- 
pitched tongues filled the public rooms and corri- 
dors. Delegates from all parts of the country were 
hurrying in from every train, and Kate, who had fol- 
lowed the work of the Woman’s Betterment Society 
with keen enthusiasm ever since she first read about 
it in the Sunday supplement in her Graytown days, 
now entered upon her work with a lofty zeal and 
reverence that set her apart from the rest of her 
professional sisterhood. She soon learned that the 
hotel, and, indeed, the rest of the town as well, 
literally swarmed with newspaper writers of her own 
141 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


sex. Never before had she known that so many 
women were supporting themselves by the pen. 
One or two of these women she recognized as coming 
from various Park Row hen-coops, and there were 
a few from other cities whose names were familiar 
to her; but there were scores of others who seemed 
to her the mere day-laborers of journalism. 

“Do tell me if Mrs. Chilton-Smythe has come 
yet!’’ cried a pudgy, breathless creature, seizing 
Kate by the arm. “I came all the way from Omaha 
more to see her than anything else, and just now 
somebody said that she wasn’t coming after all. 
Do you know if she’s arrived yet?” 

“I really can’t say,” replied Kate, noticing with 
amusement the signs of almost hysterical excite- 
ment on the other’s perspiring face. “If I see her 
I’ll let you know,” she added compassionately, re- 
calling the time when she, too, would have been 
excited at the thought of gazing at this justly cele- 
brated woman. 

“Then you’ve seen her before!” cried the other. 
“I thought from your clothes that you must be from 
New York! Is she really as handsome as the papers 
make her out? Of course I know she’s all style, and 
just nothing but style, but I do want to know if 
she’s real pretty like her pictures. Are you one of 
the delegates ? I suppose you must be or you 
wouldn’t be here. Mrs. Whittlebeck’s my name. 
I’m secretary of the Omaha chapter.” 

More flattered than she would have cared to admit 
by the stranger’s allusion to her clothes, Kate ex- 
plained that she was on the staff of the New York 
Megaphone^ a statement that evidently raised her 
materially in the other’s estimation. 

142 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘‘So you write for the papers, do you?’’ she said. 
“My, I just wisht I lived in New York. It must be 
awful exciting! My husband does business there, 
and last winter he took me with him. I was on the 
go every minute of the time.” 

Just then a thrill of excitement, followed by a 
solemn and reverential hush, made itself felt in the 
great hotel parlor, and a high-pitched voice was 
heard crying, “There she is now!” 

Looking hastily around, Kate was amazed to see 
Mrs. Chilton-Smythe coming directly toward her, 
a vision of sartorial splendor, with smiling face and 
outstretched hand. 

“My dear. I’m simply delighted to see you!” cried 
the great leader of fashion, as she took Kate’s hand 
in both of hers. “ I suppose you’re reporting the 
convention? That’s splendid! I know you’ll do it 
in a way that will make people understand the im- 
portance of the work we are trying to do for the 
women of the country — I might even say of the 
whole civilized world.” 

At this moment she became conscious of the pres- 
ence of the Omaha delegate who was gazing at her, 
round-eyed and open-mouthed. 

“Do present me to your friend,” said Mrs. 
Chilton-Smythe, who felt that she was far enough 
away from New York to meet almost anybody. 

And Kate murmured Mrs. Whittlebeck’s name 
and added, with distinct empressement^ “This is 
Mrs. Chilton-Smythe.” 

“Tm very glad to meet you,” said the leader of 
fashionable thought, with one of her most gracious 
smiles. “What paper do you represent?” 

“No paper in particular,” gasped the Omaha dele- 

143 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


gate, completely stunned by the unexpected honor 
of finding herself face to face with the woman to see 
whom she had come all the way from Nebraska. 
At best she had aspired to gaze at her from afar oflT, 
and perhaps note the details of her costume with a 
view to its reincarnation in cheaper material at the 
hands of her own dressmaker. And now she had 
actually been presented to her and was basking in 
her gracious smile! 

“No paper in particular!” repeated Mrs. Chilton- 
Smythe, still smiling. “I suppose that means that 
you write for a great many of them. Well, I shall 
be anxious to see what you say about us, so be sure 
you treat the convention with the seriousness that 
it deserves. Of course I shall see both of you 
ladies again — I hope soon and often.” And with 
these pleasant words on her lips the New York 
woman moved away and lost herself in the throng. 

“My, but ain’t she stylish! I wonder how much 
her gown cost?” exclaimed Mrs. Whittlebeck, with- 
out removing her eyes from the disappearing spirit 
of metropolitan elegance. “I suppose you got to 
know her by writing up her dresses?” 

“There are other ways of knowing people in New 
York if you happen to be presentable,” retorted 
Kate, coldly, as she turned away. 

The semi-public women who loom up so large in 
the mirage in which she dwelt had not lost their 
glamour for her; nor was she above the vanity of 
wishing this Omaha delegate to believe that she and 
Mrs. Chilton-Smythe were on the terms of friendly 
intimacy that might possibly have been inferred 
from the latter’s cordial greeting; and this tactless 
remark, coming as it did at the very moment when 
144 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


she was making mental note of every detail of the 
costly traveling-dress with a view to ‘‘writing it up’’ 
in the Megaphone, was distinctly irritating. 

As Mrs. Chilton-Smythe, erect, smiling, and se- 
cure in the knowledge that she was the best-dressed 
woman in the room, glided through the long parlor 
the waves of the Woman’s Betterment Convention 
parted silently before her, then closed in behind her, 
breaking like foam in a steamer’s wake into a thou- 
sand sparkling bubbles of hysterical comment. A 
swarm of eager whispers arose like insects on a sum- 
mer day. If all the gossip evoked by her appear- 
ance could have been gathered together for scientific 
treatment in a retort, the final analysis would have 
revealed the word “stylish” as the convention’s 
verdict. 

But Mrs. Chilton-Smythe’s fame was founded on 
something more enduring than mere style. It was 
as a latter-day De Stael that she had challenged pub- 
lic attention during three successive seasons of in- 
tellectual brilliancy. She had long since found the 
ordinary routine of society wearisome, not only to 
herself, but to many of her friends. None knew 
better than she that it was a mirage to those who 
stood and gazed from afar, and that its glories faded 
as the gazer approached and melted into thin air 
as the golden gates were passed. Her wealth and 
beauty, neither of which suffered at the hands of an 
enlightened and imaginative press, had long since 
made her a conspicuous figure in this mirage. Every- 
thing that she said was trumpeted forth to the out- 
side world, and even her most conventional doings 
received wide-spread acclaim. All this had awa- 
kened in her mind an ambition to take an active 

145 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


part in the serious affairs of the world — to win for 
herself greater and more enduring renown than 
mere social position could bestow. She knew society 
well and was well aware that its so-called leadership 
was a mere will-o’-the-wisp, not worth the striving 
for. Society was glad to eat her dinners, cruise in her 
yacht, and, indeed, take everything she had to offer 
— do anything, in fact, except listen to her or read 
her pamphlets. That the circle in which she had 
been born and reared should be the only one that 
refused to take her seriously was a grievance that 
went far toward embittering the cup of pleasure 
that Providence had filled for her with such bounte- 
ous hand. 

One might well ask why she clung so tenaciously 
to a society that refused to accept her at her own 
valuation, and of whose intellectual emptiness no 
sort of doubt existed in her mind. If her mind were 
seriously inclined, why not seek the society of the 
serious, of whom the town always has a plenty.? 
But in bursting from the chrysalis of fashion into 
an intellectual butterfly Mrs. Chilton-Smythe had 
marked her future course with far greater shrewd- 
ness than those who laughed at her realized. She 
knew that so long as she remained a conspicuous 
figure in the mirage of fashion, so long would the 
great and gasping outside world listen with respect 
to her discourse. But let her phantom “leader- 
ship” be once assailed and her pamphlets on eugenics 
and Ibsen would no longer be read and discussed; 
her utterances on the great questions of the day 
would fall on indifferent or contemptuous ears. And 
because of this shrewd reasoning she came in due 
time into the unique position of one who remains 
146 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


in society in order to talk. There are thousands who 
talk for the purpose of getting into society. 

Mrs. Chilton-Smythe was not on the platform 
when the great congress for the betterment of her 
sex assembled in the hotel ball-room. She entered 
soon after the deliberations of that august body be- 
gan and seated herself with becoming modesty and 
characteristic grace near the door, where her pres- 
ence was quickly indicated by an eager craning of 
necks and buzzing of many tongues. Bidden to a 
place on the platform, she arose and walked smilingly 
down the long aisle, perfectly at her ease and ap- 
parently unaware of the fact that the congress for 
the amelioration of womanhood was holding its 
breath as one woman and taking careful note of her 
gown. 

A thousand pairs of eyes saw that the brown trav- 
eling-suit had been exchanged for what was subse- 
quently described in almost as many women’s pages 
as a ‘‘creation in black crepe de Chine** It was re- 
marked also, and with no small regret, that the 
great leader of fashion wore no jewels, although it 
was currently reported that she had brought with 
her from New York a casket filled to the brim with 
those ornaments. A broad-brimmed hat adorned 
with a splendid plume materially heightened the 
beauty of her face and the graceful dignity of her 
carriage. 

Mrs. Chilton-Smythe had, of course, come pre- 
pared to speak, and the audience that she faced was 
eager to listen. Her subject was the fecund one of 
eugenics, and she had been at pains to bring with 
her a paper made up of gleanings from two or three 
essays that she had hastily skimmed through. 

II 147 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘‘Society,” said Mrs. Chilton-Smythe, “has come 
to the parting of the ways.” 

At this important utterance a solemn hush fell up- 
on the assembly, and the speaker paused a moment 
so that her words of omen might sink into the brains 
of her audience. Believing that she was about to 
talk on the subject of New York society — perhaps 
about the monkey dinner — the convention listened 
with keen attention. But a comical look of surprise 
and dismay spread from face to face as she con- 
tinued: 

“And we who have gathered here to discuss means 
for the uplift of our sex, and through us of the whole 
human race, must not blind ourselves to the fact 
that we are permitting humanity to deteriorate. We 
have only to walk along Fifth Avenue in New York 
or Bellevue Avenue in Newport to realize that our 
species is fast hurrying toward degeneracy. This is 
especially noticeable in the men, the women — thank 
Heaven! — having contrived to rise superior to the 
appalling conditions which confront them.” 

A round of applause fittingly expressed the con- 
vention’s appreciation of this tribute to their sex, 
and the speaker, warming to her work, went on to 
say that the remedy lay in the hands of women them- 
selves. All they had to do was to select for their 
daughters husbands who were fitted not only in- 
tellectually, but morally and physically as well, to 
become the fathers of a new and more robust and 
god-like generation. Careful scientific breeding had 
improved horses, dogs, and even feathered fowl; 
then why should it fail to develop the human race 
along the noble lines intended by God? 

The enthusiasm awakened by the enunciation of 
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these and other like platitudes manifested itself in 
an outburst of applause so loud and insistent that 
even Kate was impressed by it. Moreover, her 
news sense told her that Mrs. Chilton-Smythe’s 
speech was the thing to be dwelt upon — “played up” 
is the technical term — in her account of the conven- 
tion. That the appearance on the platform of the 
famous society leader was the chief event of the 
convention was quite evident, and she quickly made 
up her mind to ask her permission to telegraph the 
speech in full to the Megaphone, 

“My dear girl,” said Mrs. Chilton-Smythe, when 
Kate modestly asked for a copy of the speech, “Fm 
only too happy to oblige you in any way that I 
can. Do come up to my rooms and have a cup of 
tea, and Fll tell you how it was that I came to make 
that little speech.” And, with her hand resting 
affectionately on the other’s shoulder, the leader of 
intellectual fashion led the way to her luxurious 
apartment on one of the upper floors of the hotel. 
All eyes were fixed upon the pair as they walked 
thus through the vast ball-room, the young news- 
paper woman embarrassed and blushing, her com- 
panion as serene as if their progress were along a 
quiet country lane instead of between those awful 
double rows of gimlet eyes and strained faces. 

Mrs. Chilton-Smythe had brought two maids and 
a man-servant from her Fifth Avenue home — a fact 
of which her visitor instantly made mental note — 
and it was the footman who, at a word from his 
mistress, served the tea and cakes at a small table 
by a window overlooking a smoky, canon-like street. 
Never had Kate Craven been more courteously en- 
tertained; never had she been brought into such 
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intimate companionship with a grande dame such as 
her hostess of the moment. The thought that such 
an exalted being should have chosen to show so 
much kindness to one as unimportant and undeserv- 
ing as herself almost brought the tears to her eyes, 
and she resolved that if the chance ever were hers 
she would show her gratitude. It was therefore with 
the memory of this kindness warm in her heart that 
she entered her room to write her account of the 
convention — an account in which Mrs. Chilton- 
Smythe figured to the exclusion of other women of 
far greater earnestness and intelligence. It was 
printed on the front page of the paper under a 
sprawling caption calling attention to the ‘‘revolu- 
tionary ideas’’ that had “thrilled the convention,” 
and was supplemented by a short editorial in which 
the speaker was called the “Joan of Arc of the new 
woman’s movement.” 

Not only in the metropolis, but in every city of 
the Union as well, did a liberal and discerning press 
hail Mrs. Chilton-Smythe as the leader of her sex. 
Sensible enough to know when to hold her tongue, 
she made no more speeches, but remained a quiet 
but by far the most conspicuous figure in Chicago 
until the convention adjourned and the members 
dispersed to their several homes, rejoicing in the 
thought that the Woman’s Betterment cause had 
made a noteworthy advancement. Mrs. Chilton- 
Smythe disappeared from the scene in a cloud of 
glory, having achieved at the very last a sartorial 
triumph that was destined to outlive in the public 
memory her remarkable utterances on the upbuild- 
ing of the human race. The hat in which she made 
her almost sensational departure from the hotel was 
150 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


of novel and striking design, and one so easily imi- 
tated that within a fortnight a score of Chicago 
milliners were turning it out in cheaper materials, 
and before the close of the season the ‘‘Chilton- 
Smythe toque was a recognized form of head-gear 
from one end of the country to the other. 


CHAPTER XV 


K ate craven returned to New York feeling 
that in Mrs. Chilton-Smythe, whose name was 
now on every feminine tongue, she had made a firm 
friend for life. She had also won the undying grati- 
tude of Mrs. Whittlebeck, who followed her with 
slavish adoration to the train, begging her to visit 
her in Omaha and assuring her that the next time 
she went to New York she would call upon her. 

She reached home to find Lady Clara affectionate- 
ly glad to see her, but evidently agitated, and it was 
not long before she told the cause of her anxiety. 
Barshfield was about to take one of his periodical 
trips abroad. Tops had seen the steamer ticket ly- 
ing on the royal desk, and had hastened to carry the 
tidings to those whose favor he especially coveted. 

'‘But what difference can that make to us? He 
never comes near our office!” exclaimed Kate, sur- 
prised that such a trivial happening should seem 
to Lady Clara of such serious import. 

“My dear,” said the elder and more experienced 
woman, “when you’ve been in Park Row a little 
longer you’ll know that a trip to Europe is apt to 
prove a sad affair to some of those not able to take 
it. All the dirty work in the office is done while Mr. 
Barshfield is away. That’s the time you’re liable to 
be discharged without rhyme or reason, or else taken 
off a desk where you’ve made good and put on one 

152 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


where they know you’ll fall down. Whether he 
gives instructions himself before he goes, nobody 
can say, but while he’s away Macy and Vanderlip 
have full power. They’re all on the anxious seat in 
the city-room, and though I’ve no reason to believe 
that anything is going to happen to us, still I can’t 
help feeling worried. At my age, and with all the 
calls on my purse, it would be a very serious thing 
for me to lose my job, especially as I haven’t got 
more than twenty dollars to my name, and I owe 
all of that and more, too.” 

Poor Lady Clara’s voice broke into something 
very like a sob at the last, and that, with the two 
big tears that rolled down her cheeks, touched Kate’s 
kind heart. Deeply grateful as she was to the elder 
woman for all she had done to make smooth the 
rough and treacherous paths of Park Row for her 
untried feet, there had been times when the heed- 
less generosity of that estimable and sincere friend 
had aroused her indignation. Time and again had 
she remonstrated with her, but to no avail. Now 
the sight of this weary, worried woman clothed in 
a gorgeous scarlet kimono, her iron-gray hair strag- 
gling down her back, her eyes dim with tears, and 
her whole face distorted with anxiety, moved her 
to plain speech. 

‘‘You poor dear thing,” she said, putting her arms 
tenderly around the scarlet-clad figure, “don’t you 
know that if you allow every one to sponge on you 
you’ll never have a cent of your own?” 

“But how can I help it?” wailed Lady Clara. 
“Surely it ought to be give-and-take in this world, 
and when every one is so good and kind to me it’s 
only right that I should help along as much as 
IS3 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


possible. Then IVe got calls on me that you don’t 
know about — calls that no mother could disregard. 
Wait till you’re a mother, dear, and then you’ll 
understand as you can’t now.” 

“But I do understand!” exclaimed Kate, indig- 
nantly. “I’ve known all along that your worthless 
son was keeping you poor with his incessant demands 
upon you. I’ve seen him in company with that 
wretched woman, dressed in clothes that you paid 
for, eating and drinking and laughing and making 
love to her as if he hadn’t a care on his mind. Well, 
I suppose he hasn’t. He puts them all on your 
shoulders.” 

“So somebody’s been talking to you about my 
poor boy?” moaned Lady Clara, forlornly. “Who- 
ever did it might have been better employed, I can 
tell you that. Who was it?” 

“No matter who it was,” retorted Kate. “The 
fact remains that he’s taking your money and spend- 
ing it on a vile woman. I wonder that even she 
isn’t ashamed to take it.” 

“Well, at least he loves her, and they’re happy 
together. There’s something in that, isn’t there?” 
whimpered Lady Clara, giving way without reserve 
to her grief. “And what’s more, I can’t forget that 
he’s my own son. I suppose you’ve never taken 
that into account.?” 

“That makes it all the worse!” rejoined the other, 
sharply. “It’s bad enough for him to allow that 
infamous creature to pay his bills, but to come to 
his own mother is simply shameless. Now, I’ve got 
a little money saved up, and back of that money is 
a very grateful heart, so you needn’t feel ashamed 
to call on me for help when you want it. But let 

154 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


me tell you that not one cent of it shall go into the 
pockets of any of the dead-beats who’ve been fat- 
tening on you ever since you’ve been earning a 
salary.” 

Wisely enough Kate said no more, and Lady Clara, 
who had grown extremely fond of her during the 
many months of their intimate association in home 
and office, did her best to forgive her for telling her 
the truth — a sin that many excellent women find 
it hard to pardon. 

Generously enough the elder woman then pro- 
ceeded to tell her assistant that her reports of the 
convention were highly regarded by those in au- 
thority in the office, and had even evoked favora- 
ble comment from the royal lips. The fact that she 
had not only telegraphed the now famous Chilton- 
Smythe oration in full, but had also made known 
to a feverishly interested world the fact that that 
famous woman traveled with two maids and a man- 
servant, had proved her a journalist of powers 
hitherto unsuspected, and Lady Clara declared that 
it was not unlikely that she would now be “pushed 
right along,” adding, dolefully, but not enviously, 
“especially if / get fired.” 

“Nonsense!” cried the other, impetuously; “all 
I know is what you’ve taught me. I’m much more 
anxious about my own job than about yours.” 

Kate had done admirable work at the woman’s 
convention, and had also obtained from Mrs. Chilton- 
Smythe a great deal of personal information, for the 
most part trivial and therefore important, together 
with permission to use it as she might see fit. This 
material she wove into an interview which was 
printed on the Woman’s Page, together with a snap- 
GS 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


shot of the toque that was soon to win immortal 
fame. 

Barshfield sailed for Europe the next morning, 
and, true to Lady Clara’s prediction, he had scarce- 
ly passed Sandy Hook when the ax began to fall in 
the city-room. Not one of those mentioned in these 
chronicles suffered. A few pawns were swept from 
the board — and then silence. The city-room began 
to breathe freely again, and the survivors, feeling 
that at least the inevitable day of doom was post- 
poned, took up once more the dull burden of duty. 

A fortnight later Marshall, having received an 
offer to become the Sunday editor of the Daily 
Planet, cabled his resignation to Barshfield. A few 
days afterward Vanderlip came into Macy’s room 
and, having carefully closed the door behind him, 
placed on the latter’s desk a cablegram in which 
Barshfield gave Penfield full charge of the Sunday 
supplement, making him fully responsible for it, 
and taking that important department entirely out 
of the hands of Vanderlip, who had previously main- 
tained a careful supervision over its contents. Macy 
read it with slow deliberation, and then the eyes of 
the two men met, and for the first time since they 
were reporters together they found themselves in 
perfect accord and animated by a common purpose. 

“I think, John,” said Vanderlip, ‘That it’s about 
time for us to get together.” 

“Quite time, Tom,” said Macy. They were call- 
ing each other by their first names, as they had 
when they were in the city-room. “Come up and 
have dinner with me to-night,” he added; and then 
Tops came in with a card, and Vanderlip withdrew 
to his own quarters, turning as he went to address 
156 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


the other in the form of stiff politeness to which the 
office-boy was accustomed. 

It was late that night when the two men arrived 
at the office by different routes, and nothing could 
have been more friendly than the manner in which 
Vanderlip apprised Penfield of his good fortune, 
thanking him jovially for taking some of the load 
from his own shoulders. 

“If I were you,’’ he advised, “I’d drive the men 
out of that little corner office and fix it up for my- 
self. You’ve got to have a place where you can 
receive people and talk business without having the 
whole staff listen.” 

Greatly elated at the prospect of having a whole 
room to himself, Penfield hastened to drive out the 
previous incumbents, thereby creating three venge- 
ful enemies, which was precisely the effect that the 
managing editor had calculated on. He was not long 
in making known to Kate the fact of his promotion, 
and in his usual boastful way he remarked that he 
stood so well with Barshfield now that nothing could 
come between them. 

But the young girl’s common sense told her that 
his place was less secure than he fancied, and she 
warned him not to imperil his chances by over- 
confidence in his own impregnability. 

Penfield only laughed at her safe counsel. “I 
guess if you could see how polite Vanderlip is to 
me you’d realize that I’ve climbed pretty high up 
the steps of the throne. It was he who suggested 
my taking that little office for myself.” 

For a time both Macy and Vanderlip offered him 
bits of advice and many suggestions as to the con- 
duct of the Sunday supplement, all of which he 
157 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


acted upon without dreaming of the pit that they 
were digging before his feet. Then there appeared 
in a gossipy weekly, that published occasional rasp- 
ing items of Park Row news, a paragraph stating 
that it was well known in newspaper circles that 
Edward Penfield, although nominally Sunday editor 
of the MegaphonCy was in reality merely the subor- 
dinate of Vanderlip, who supervised everything un- 
der direct instructions from the proprietor. From 
that moment Penfield steered his own course, ignor- 
ing all advice and keeping aloof from the two men 
whose suggestions had proved so valuable to him. 
Now, instead of consulting those experienced editors, 
both of whom were altogether too crafty to give 
him any wrong hints, he looked over the files of the 
Megaphone and other papers, for he had long since 
discovered that Park Row is a favorite field for 
the exercise of the prudent qualities of imitation 
and repetition. 

His new policy bore its first fruit in February, in 
the shape of a ‘‘Lincoln Number,’’ which was fol- 
lowed a few weeks later by a great colored picture 
of crowded Fifth Avenue called “The Easter Pa- 
rade.” He was just beginning to plan a “Christmas 
in Many Lands” for the first week in December 
when the rising thermometer warned him of the 
approach of summer, a period in which it was cus- 
tomary for the Megaphone to call attention to the 
“starving millions” of the city’s population. A 
picnic for the children of the tenements seemed to 
him the medium of beneficence most honored by 
ancient custom, as well as the least expensive, and 
he determined to organize one of mammoth propor- 
tions. The task of collecting the children and con- 
158 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


veying them to the seashore was assigned to Lady 
Clara, while Kate was told to go with a photographer 
through the east side of the town and prepare a 
graphic description of life in that teeming quarter. 
Meanwhile ambassadors from the business office 
went forth to make thrifty bargains for transporta- 
tion to the seashore, for ice-cream, cakes, lemonade — 
anything, in short, that could be made to serve as 
refreshments for a company of hungry boys and 
girls. 

Thfe readers of the Megaphone were informed 
through a series of trumpet-blasts on the editorial 
page that the entire cost of this enormous under- 
taking was to be borne by the humane owner of 
the paper; but the actual expense in money was 
surprisingly small. The business office agreed 
through its emissaries to publish the portrait of the 
superintendent of the steamboat company, together 
with a eulogy of his benevolence, in exchange for 
free transportation. The ice-cream manufacturer 
was to furnish a specified number of gallons of cream 
in return for which the portrait of his daughter was 
to be published in the society column, together with 
a paragraph describing her as “one of the most 
popular of the season’s debutantes.” The sand- 
wiches, milk, and candy were arranged for on similar 
terms, and but little remained for Lady Clara to 
do but secure the attendance of a suitable number 
of children and get some photographs of the worst- 
looking ones. This had to be done before the ex- 
cursion, because the parents usually insisted upon 
making them as presentable as possible for the trip, 
in spite of the remonstrances of Lady Clara, who 
wanted them ragged and starving so that they 
159 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


could be photographed in a state of destitution and 
thus help to keep alive one of the most treasured of 
the many myths on which the Megaphone s circula- 
tion thrived. 

So it happened that on the appointed day this 
indefatigable woman might have been seen in one 
of the dirtiest blocks in the worst quarter of the 
town, posing a group of street children in front of 
the camera that had been hastily erected on the 
sidewalk. Having a keen eye for the picturesque, 
she arranged her little group directly in front of a 
particularly squalid-looking wooden building, in the 
doorway of which a drunken woman of repulsive 
aspect stood watching the proceedings with polite 
interest. The children were selected because of 
their rags and dirt. Those who had shoes and 
stockings were told to take them off, and at the sug- 
gestion of the photographer Lady Clara artfully 
rubbed a little dirt on the cheeks of the cleanest ones. 

“Now, children,” she commanded, as she waved 
back the swarms of urchins that had assembled 
to watch the proceedings, “stay perfectly quiet for 
a minute, and Til give each one of you a penny.” 

“Mebbe ye’d like to have me move out of the 
way, lady,” said the drunken woman in the door- 
way, with a courteous hiccough. 

“Not on any account!” exclaimed Lady Clara. 
“Please stay just where you are, and don’t try to 
smooth out your hair. There, let that lock hang 
over your face; it looks better that way.” 

“I’ll go in an’ put on me shoes an’ stockin’s,” 
remonstrated the woman, glancing down at her 
bare feet. 

“Not for the world!” exclaimed Lady Clara. 
i6o 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘‘And don’t try to hide them one behind the other. 
Just keep quiet one minute, madam, and then I’ll 
invite you to have a nice glass of gin.” 

“Very well, dear,” said the woman. “When a 
rale lady asks me to do a thing, gentle like, the same 
as yerself, I always try to do it.” 

“There, there, don’t talk! Now, then, all quiet 
for one minute,” said Lady Clara. The photog- 
rapher lifted the cloth from his camera and the work 
was done. 

“That ’ll make a splendid group,” he remarked to 
Lady Clara. “They look too clean on the excur- 
sion. This is the raggedest crowd we ever struck.” 

“Yes,” said Lady Clara, as she handed the 
drunken woman a dime. “I do wish they weren’t 
so outrageously neat and clean when they come to 
our charities. We’ll call this picture ‘A mother and 
her brood,’ and then we’ll try and find some drunken 
man asleep on a bench and photograph him for the 
father. Children,” she continued, as she distributed 
her pennies among the young models, “do any of 
you happen to know where there’s a nice drunken 
man asleep?” 

“Dere’s one on a bench in Mulberry Park,” said 
one urchin. 

“Me fadder’s layin’ in a doorway round de cor- 
ner,” piped up a small girl. 

“ Better try the one in the park,” said the photog- 
rapher, shouldering his tripod; “we’ll probably get 
a better exposure there.” And they walked on to 
complete their work, while the old woman made 
her way through the side-door of a near-by groggery, 
and the children followed them in a vast, ever- 
increasing army. 


CHAPTER XVI 


M eanwhile Kate Craven was making her way 
to a part of the city that she had never dared 
to visit, owing to the awful descriptions she had read 
of it in Sunday Megaphone literature. In her mi- 
rage the East Side was a region of bitter poverty 
and wretchedness, inhabited only by ragged and 
hungry thousands. Swarming about the doors of 
groggeries were countless men, women, and even 
children in various stages of intoxication. Sick 
babies, abandoned by drunken mothers, lay gasping 
in doorways. Everywhere people were crying for 
food. And all this time men and women of wealth 
and high social position were heartlessly eating and 
drinking and enjoying themselves. That was the 
sort of fiction on which the Megaphone thrived. 

The photographer who accompanied her was a 
recent addition to the art department who knew 
nothing of the traditions of the paper nor of the in- 
exorable laws laid down by its owner. Moreover, 
he was a young man with an artistic soul that soared 
far above photography, which was to him a mere 
means of livelihood until that ardently longed-for 
moment when he should “arrive” as a painter of 
realism. By nature a lover of truth and possessed 
of a clear vision, he delighted in portraying, even 
through the ruthless mechanical medium of the cam- 
era, life as it really was rather than as the public 
162 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


expected it to be. The two had not proceeded far 
before he realized that in his companion he had 
found a congenial spirit, a lover of the truth like 
himself, though still viewing life through the jaun- 
diced spectacles of sensational journalism. 

Journeying up the Bowery in a street-car, they 
alighted at Fourth Street and turned their steps 
eastward. It was a clear, sunny day, and as they 
entered the poorer quarter of the city Kate was 
amazed to note the unmistakable signs of cheerful- 
ness and comfort that greeted her on every hand. 
Swarms of children, for the most part dirty but ob- 
viously healthy and vigorous, were playing in the 
streets; peddlers’ carts filled with every conceivable 
kind of merchandise were ranged along the sidewalk 
and did a thriving business at prices that seemed to 
Kate amazingly small. She noticed also that the 
customers paid cash for what they bought. No- 
where could she find any indications of gaunt poverty 
and starvation. A few blocks farther south they 
found the Italians celebrating one of their innumer- 
able feast-days, the whole block gay with cheap 
decorations, the houses festooned with gaudy fabrics, 
and the roadway crowded with a merry, chattering 
throng. Farther north in Tompkins Square were 
thousands of children at play, and a happier-looking 
lot of youngsters it would be hard to find anywhere. 
Although the day was warm, very few were barefoot, 
and, indeed, scarcely one was not comfortably clad. 
So far as externals could indicate, their lot was far 
more to be envied than that of the children of the 
Graytown factory-workers. She was surprised also 
to see that the city had recognized their need for 
outdoor recreation by supplying the great open 

12 163 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


square with swings, sand-heaps, and other means of 
enjoyment, such as were unheard of in her old home. 

“IVe an idea!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘Let us take 
some pictures of these youngsters at play and de- 
scribe them just as they are; show how much is done 
for them, and explain how they are really better 
olF than if they lived in a small town like the one 
I came from.” 

“That’s right!” said the photographer, approv- 
ingly, for he knew nothing of the most sacred tradi- 
tions of the Megaphone office. “I’ve been in Lon- 
don and Liverpool and seen what real bitter, starving, 
hopeless poverty is. It’s a thing you’re not likely 
to forget, and there’s nothing like it in this town.” 

Filled with honest zeal for a genuine chronicle 
of truth, the two set to work, and the result was a 
page article, illustrated with many photographs, in 
which the poor of New York were contrasted with 
those of the British capital and the mill-workers in 
the average small American town. It was late at 
night when the page was finally made up, and Kate 
went home feeling that she had done a really il- 
luminating piece of work and one that would fully 
justify the confidence Ned Penfield had always re- 
posed in her. The latter, in the press of business 
incidental to getting the Sunday edition to press, 
scarcely glanced at Kate’s page, and accepted her 
assurances that she had written a story that she 
felt sure would do them both credit. In doing this 
she had been compelled to leave out a picture of 
Mrs. Chilton-Smythe that she had promised to 
publish. 

Although Vanderlip had in his own words “wash- 
ed his hands” of all responsibility for the Sunday 
164 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


supplement, he never failed to have a set of page 
proofs placed on his desk on Saturday morning, 
and so it came to pass that at noon on this day his 
confidential emissary. Tops, dove down into the 
press-room and returned with a complete set hidden 
under his coat. Precisely two minutes later the 
managing editor entered the private office of Mr. 
Macy, and, having first satisfied himself that they 
were alone, drew from his pocket a proof of Kate’s 
description of slum life and spread it out on the 
city editor’s desk. The latter glanced at the pic- 
tures of happy, robust youngsters at play — the pho- 
tographer had selected the best instead of the worst 
looking groups he could find — and then the eyes of 
the two men met, a gleam of triumph on the face 
of each. 

‘‘Give a calf rope enough, and he’ll be sure to hang 
himself!” said Vanderlip, significantly. 

It is doubtful if, even if Kate’s page had been 
shown him, Penfield would have quite realized the 
enormity of her offense in permitting the photo- 
graphs of fat, healthy, decently dressed children to 
appear in a story of the tenements. 

For in the pages of the Sunday Megaphone only 
the extremes of human existence are visible — the 
very rich and the very poor. And, as the wealth 
of the members of the Four Hundred, the brilliancy 
of its women, the enormous cost of their dresses, 
the staggering weight of their tiaras, and the eccen- 
tricity of their revels are all skilfully magnified, so 
are the sufferings of the “starving millions” made as 
prominent as possible. To sustain the stability of 
this illusion it is necessary to people the town with 
what might be termed the “professional poor” — 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


meaning those who are always pictured as gaunt, 
hollow-eyed victims of capitalistic tyranny. The 
admission, therefore, to the columns of the Mega- 
phone of a true picture of the city’s poorer quarter 
meant a step toward the disintegration of this de- 
lirious picture that had been constructed with so 
much care and craft. At noon on Sunday Dan 
Farley, than whom no man was ever better versed 
in the traditions and myths and the laws, written 
and unwritten, by which the office was governed, 
entered the city-room and with a look of question- 
ing wonder in his face showed the supplement to 
one of the younger reporters and asked him if he 
knew what it meant. 

“Bedad,” said Farley, as the other gazed blankly 
at him with a shake of the head, “the next thing 
you know they’ll be showing up millionaires as if 
they were ordinary human beings instead of crowned 
kings. You mark my words, me boy, some poor 
devil is going to get in trouble for that, and you can 
bet that Mr. Sunday Editor won’t be man enough 
to take the thing on his own shoulders.” 

“But what’s the matter with it?” asked the other, 
his face showing plainly his bewilderment. 

“Matter!” cried Dan. “Why, there’s a lot of fat 
kids got into the pictures. That’s something you 
never saw yet in our paper, though the Lord knows 
they’ve had everything else under the sun.” 

Kate’s page of description proved one of the minor 
sensations of Park Row, and for a whole day she 
nursed the comforting delusion that she had done 
something that would redound to her credit. Then 
the storm began to break about her in the shape of 
a succession of startling thunderclaps. 

i66 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


The first of these came on Sunday morning while 
she and Lady Clara were seated before the gas-log 
in their little parlor, Kate with her writing-pad on 
her knees and the older woman, who had remained 
in bed until late, idly scanning the pages of the huge 
Sunday issue. 

“I don’t see Mrs. Chilton-Smythe’s picture,” she 
remarked. ‘‘You know she’ll make an awful row 
if it’s left out.” 

“I couldn’t help it,” rejoined Kate; “the East 
Side story needed a full page, and the pictures were 
so fine and took up so much room I hadn’t the heart 
to leave any of them out. Just see how good they 
are.” 

Lady Clara studied the page a moment and then 
cried: “Oh, my dear! How did you ever come to 
do it.f^ If your friend Penfield passed on those it 
will get him into a peck of trouble, and you’ll cer- 
tainly be called down. Oh, why didn’t you tell me 
what you were doing?” 

“Why, what’s wrong with them?” demanded the 
other, in amazement. “They were the best-looking 
children we could find.” 

“The best - looking!” exclaimed Lady Clara; 
“that’s precisely what’s the matter with them. 
Don’t you know that we’ve got to make the poor 
all the poorer and the rich all the richer in our office? 
I don’t know what Mr. Vanderlip will say. I’m 
sure Mr. Barshfield will be furious when he sees it. 
How in the world do you think we could get up a 
bread fund for people who have enough to eat?” 

The second thunderclap came that very moment 
in the form of a telephone call from Penfield, whose 
attention had just been drawn by Vanderlip to 
167 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Kate’s faux pas, and who now addressed her over 
the wire as he had never spoken to her before. In 
a voice vibrant with anger he accused her of com- 
bining with his enemies to ruin him, and declared 
that if he lost his position on the Megaphone it would 
be entirely her fault. Then with a few bitter words 
about ingratitude he rang off, leaving Kate white, 
trembling, and speechless. 

‘‘What’s the matter?” demanded Lady Clara, as 
the young girl threw herself into her easy-chair and 
covered her face with her hands. Kate’s only reply 
was a burst of tears; and Lady Clara wept sympa- 
thetically, too, as she took her in her arms and held 
her close to her breast until the paroxysm of grief 
had subsided. 

“It was Ned,” she said, as soon as she was able 
to speak. “He told me I’d done it on purpose so 
as to get him discharged, and he called me ungrate- 
ful, too. Oh, it’s all some dreadful mistake — and I 
thought I was doing so splendidly.” 

The elder woman comforted her as best she could, 
and assured her that the whole thing would probably 
blow over and then Penfield would realize how un- 
just he had been and hasten to apologize; but Kate’s 
feelings had been grievously hurt, and despite Lady 
Clara’s kind ministrations she had little sleep that 
night, and when she awoke in the morning she found 
herself crushed under the weight of an awful anxiety. 

The next thunderclap came when she reached the 
office and found awaiting her a summons from Macy, 
who, with a serious face, asked her how it was that 
she had neglected to print Mrs. Chilton-Smythe’s 
portrait with an account of what the Woman’s 
Betterment Society was doing. 

i68 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“She writes me rather bitterly on the subject/’ 
continued the city editor, glancing at the letter in 
his hand. “She says you promised her it should go 
in, and she relied on your promise. Instead of that 
you ran the picture of Miss Smithers, who is, as you 
probably know, her mortal enemy, and she’s wild 
about it. How did it happen. Miss Craven.?” 

“I didn’t know that it was so very important,” 
she answered, desperately. “The account of the 
East Side with the pictures took up so much room 
that the picture of Mrs. Chilton-Smythe got crowded 
out. But I’ll have it in next Sunday, sure,” she 
added, in the forlorn hope of retrieving herself. 

“I’m afraid that East Side page was another mis- 
take,” said Macy, regretfully. “Mr. Penfield tells 
me he cautioned you particularly about the policy 
of the office in regard to its attitude toward the 
slums. Surely you have read our editorials regard- 
ing the deplorable condition of these victims of capi- 
talistic tyranny, and you know that we’re always 
getting up picnics and free excursions for them 
and making appeals to the public in their behalf. 
How can we hope to interest people in such fat, 
healthy-looking children as those depicted on your 
page.? Your own common sense, to say nothing of 
the experience you have gained in the office, ought to 
have taught you not to print such a story as that, 
especially after Mr. Penfield’s explicit instructions.” 

“But he — ” began Kate, and then stopped short. 
She knew now that Ned, instead of taking the blame, 
had lied to save himself; but she could not bring 
herself to betray him. Better to suffer ignominy 
and perhaps lose her position than to put her friend 
in jeopardy. And besides, it might be that she had 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


done him an injustice, and that Macy was trying to 
coax some admission from her. Ever since the night 
of her arrival in New York she had been hearing of 
the craft and guile with which men played the game 
of office politics. This might be a specimen of it. 
Macy handed her Mrs. Chilton-Smythe’s letter, and 
she read it with feelings of amazement and indig- 
nation. The leader of the Woman’s Betterment 
Society had written with the unbridled fury of a 
fishwoman. She alluded to the ingratitude of that 
“chit of a girl” whom, she declared, had received from 
her “countless favors and gifts” — meaning thereby 
her signed photographs, one or two bunches of flow- 
ers, and on one memorable occasion a last season’s 
hat — all of which now rose up in Kate’s memory and 
confronted her like avenging furies. To her letter 
was added a postcript in which she declared that she 
had written to Mr. Barshfield in Europe, asking that 
Miss Craven be discharged from the paper for not 
giving an equivalent for the favors she had received. 

Kate’s face was white as she silently returned the 
letter to Macy. The little world of friends that she 
had built up for herself in her own corner of New 
York seemed tumbling down about her ears. Amazed 
and hurt, she made no attempt to justify herself. 
If she could only hold herself in control and keep 
back the tears it was all she could hope for. 

“I am sorry. Miss Craven,” said Macy, gently, 
“that all of this happened, especially as Mr. Barsh- 
field is away, and it is difficult to lay the matter be- 
fore him as I should like to. As it is, he will prob- 
ably be very much influenced by what Mr. Penfield 
says, so I advise you to see him at the very earliest 
possible moment.” 


J70 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


The young girl turned away and with some diffi- 
culty managed to gain her office before she relieved 
herself by a burst of tears. 

Penfield wrote promptly to Barshfield, explaining 
that he had given full instructions to his assistant 
in regard ro the well-known attitude of the paper 
toward the slums, and hinting that jealousy of his 
own success had, quite naturally, developed in the 
office a little cabal that would not permit even the 
interests of the paper to interfere with his own 
undoing. 

The ten days that followed were the most wretched 
that Kate had ever known. How she managed to 
do her work and preserve the outward semblance of 
cheerfulness she never knew. But Lady Clara did 
her best to cheer her up with the love and sympathy 
that always flowed from her foolish heart when a 
friend was in trouble, and it seemed to Kate that 
every one in the office was unusually cordial and 
gentle, none more so than Telford, who showed her 
countless little attentions in his unobtrusive way. 
Penfield she studiously avoided, and once, when he 
tried to speak to her, she passed him by without a 
sign of recognition. The rumor of her faux pas had 
gone abroad through the city-room, whence it had 
quickly sped, by way of that unequaled distributing 
agency of gossip, the Brasserie of Hard Times, 
throughout the length and breadth of Park Row; 
and those who knew the merciless will that lay be- 
hind Barshfield’s gentle manner and well-bred smile 
feared that disaster was hanging over her head, 
though they hoped that the swinging ax might fall 
on the responsible Sunday editor instead of on her. 

When Barshfield received Penfield’s letter of ex- 
171 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


planation and Mrs. Chilton-Smythe’s angry com- 
plaint, he realized that something must be done, and 
promptly cabled to Vanderlip for full particulars of 
the outrage on office traditions. The latter, reply- 
ing through the same channel of communication, 
sought to excuse Kate on the ground of inexperience, 
and explained that he had just learned that she and 
Penfield came from the same country town and 
were close friends. This was news to the Mega- 
phone^ s owner and awakened in his mind a suspicion 
of intrigue going on behind his back, for although, 
as he remembered now, he had often spoken of Kate 
to Penfield, the latter had never acknowledged her 
as an intimate friend. 

It was this paragraph that marked out a course 
of action for which Mrs. Chilton-Smythe’s letter 
furnished the excuse. Some one must go, and Pen- 
field was too valuable a man at this particular junc- 
ture to be dispensed with. Kate, on the other hand, 
was merely a pawn on the board. On her innocent 
head the royal vengeance must fall. 

Kate Craven listened to her sentence, pronounced 
by Vanderlip in tones of real regret and sympathy, 
then went back to her desk, packed up her few per- 
sonal belongings, and slipped away without saying 
a word to any one. As she entered the parlor of her 
home and threw her little bundle on the table Lady 
Clara knew what had happened and rose from her 
chair with a cry of grief and sympathy that brought 
tears to the young girl’s eyes. 

“You needn’t tell me, darling,” moaned the elder 
woman; “I was afraid of it from the first.” 

In the course of her hazardous life Lady Clara had 
experienced so many ups and downs, had lost so 
lyz 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


many jobs, retrieved herself so often, and suffered 
so much at the hands of the ungrateful and self- 
seeking that she had long since learned to accept 
disaster as a mere episode of a precarious existence. 
But she was one of those rare human beings who, 
although quite able to bear their own misfortunes 
without complaint, cannot look unmoved at the 
sufferings of others, and now the sight of Kate’s 
white, pitiful face literally wrung her heart with 
grief. For almost the first time in her life she had 
loved some one who was not entirely worthless. 
The months during which she and Kate had shared 
the little flat had been the happiest and most peace- 
ful in all her life, and at this moment she felt that 
she would rather have lost her own position on the 
Megaphone than have had Kate sacrificed to the 
heartless ambition of the man whom she had trusted 
so implicitly. For Lady Clara had been an anxious 
though silent observer of the intimacy between Ned 
Penfield and the young girl whom she had taken 
into her warm, motherly heart, and she wondered 
now whether Kate were more seriously interested in 
him than she had imagined and hoped. But, wisely 
enough, she asked no questions, believing that if 
there were anything to tell Kate would confide in 
her in due season. 


CHAPTER XVII 


I N almost every human life there comes a time 
when it is absolutely necessary to sit down and 
think, to review the past and make plans for the 
future, to determine whether to yield to the stress 
of circumstances or renew the battle. To the cour- 
ageous, ambitious soul this is a moment of intense 
thought, crowded with bitter memories and inspired 
by marvelous dreams as the soul clutches eagerly at 
the straws of desperate hope. In this moment, 
while the search-light of the imagination lights up 
with alternating rays the irrevocable past and the 
possible future, the scales of vanity and self-decep- 
tion fall from our eyes and we see with a marvelously 
clear vision. 

It is not success, but humiliating defeat that brings 
this moment of ruthless self-examination. It came 
to Robert Bruce as he lay hidden in his cave watching 
the spider and taking new heart from the infinite 
patience with which it spun its web. It was in a 
like moment that Hamlet decided between life and 
death. At such a crisis, lasting a hundred days as 
befitted the magnitude of the matters involved, 
Napoleon devised his escape from Elba and planned 
the Waterloo campaign. It was in a moment that 
was doubtless shorter but no less bitter that Car- 
lyle resolved to rewrite the French Revolution after 
his first manuscript had been accidentally de- 

174 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


stroyed. And it was in just such a moment, late 
that night, after Lady Clara had gone to bed, that 
Kate Craven sat down before the gas-log in the little 
parlor, her eyes dry, her face distorted with pain, and 
her heart filled with a bitterness such as it had never 
known before, and looked the future fairly in the face. 
At the same time she reviewed her whole career, ac- 
knowledging the errors that had caused her downfall 
and studying the difficulties that surrounded her. 

Sitting there with her feet on the fender and her 
head resting on her hands, the whole scheme of New 
York life — or at least those phases of it that she 
had known — stood out, revealed in vivid distinct- 
ness, stripped of all glamour. She remembered now, 
with a smile of contempt, the enthusiasm with which 
she had entered upon her work in the hen-coop, the 
hopes that she had cherished of bettering the con- 
dition of her sex, her simple-minded faith in the 
Woman’s Betterment Society, its sincerity, disin- 
terestedness, and power of accomplishment. How 
much, she asked herself, does woman want to be 
bettered? In the old Graytown days she had 
dreamed of women as a great power for good, ruling 
men by sheer force of mind and soul; but it seemed 
to her now that if they ruled at all it was not by 
either soul or mind, and that their influence was 
not for good, but for evil. She went back in mem- 
ory to the evening she spent with Telford at the 
theater and in the garish Broadway restaurant — an 
experience that marked a distinct period in her 
initiation into metropolitan ways; the women. in 
short skirts and low-cut bodices who sang and 
danced; those in tights who were there merely to 
charm the eye; and, more instructive than all the 

175 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


rest, the splendidly attired creatures in the restau- 
rant on whom the men were spending their money 
so lavishly. Ever since the whole situation had been 
delicately made known to her she had found it diffi- 
cult to believe that it was through the mind and 
soul that her sex acquired its influence. Now it 
seemed to her that Truth was literally staring her 
out of countenance and announcing that it had 
come into her mind to stay. 

And of all the bitter truths that dogged her men- 
tal footsteps none was more malignant nor insistent 
than the Ned Penfield whom she saw now with the 
halo gone from his brow and his mean little soul 
standing out before her gaze in all its sliminess. She 
tried to drive the hideous vision from her mind, but 
Truth reminded her that this Penfield was the real 
man that he had always been and always would be; 
that the soul that she saw in all its shameful naked- 
ness was the same one that her wise old mother had 
recognized from the very first and had warned her 
against. 

Her mother! There was a woman who dominated 
by force of soul and mind! Never before had she 
seemed so strong and wise and good. Kate Craven’s 
face softened and her eyes filled with tears as she 
thought of the long years of loving self-sacrifice, hard 
work, and careful teaching to which she owed so 
much. It was a supreme consolation to her now to 
think of the money she had been able to send to 
her, and of what those small sums must have meant 
in increased comfort and lessened anxiety. She 
would give the world now to be able to lay her head 
on that broad bosom and sob out her troubles as she 
had in the old childhood days. 

176 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


By a sudden and resolute effort of the will she 
roused herself from this train of morbid introspec- 
tion. Brought face to face with the bitter actuali- 
ties of life, she realized that the moment had come 
in which she must choose between the two paths 
that she saw before her. Either she must acknowl- 
edge defeat and return to the home which she had 
left so confidently a year ago, or else take up arms 
once more against the sea of trouble in which she 
had involved herself. One of these paths led through 
the quiet fields of dull respectability to uneventful 
old age. Guided by the lamp of her recent experi- 
ence, she felt that this path she could at least travel 
with safety. The other led through unknown perils 
and anxieties into the heart of a battle for very 
existence that she regarded now with far more terror 
than she had felt when she first flung herself into 
the fray. One of these paths she would tread with 
her mother by her side; the other she must travel 
alone, for whom could she trust now.^ The one path 
led nowhere; the other almost anywhere. 

The psychological moment in life that came to 
Napoleon at Elba, to Bruce in his cave, and to 
Carlyle before the ashes of his burnt manuscript had 
come to Kate Craven seated before the gas-log in a 
New York flat. 

She had saved almost three hundred dollars from 
her salary, and she knew that her mother could live 
— or at least exist — without her aid. The tempta- 
tion to stay in the city and fight it out was strong 
within her, especially when she thought of Graytown 
and the long, dreary vista of a life that she had com- 
pletely outgrowm. Wearied with her long day, she 
rose to her feet, extinguished the gas-log which had 
177 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


given her both warmth and light, and was about to 
seek her own room when the telephone bell rang. 
It was Ernest Telford, and her face brightened as 
she recognized his voice. He had only just heard 
of her trouble, and wished to tell her how sorry 
he was. Could he call to-morrow and talk over 
things with her? Perhaps he might be able to sug- 
gest something? At any rate, he hoped so. Good 
night. 

Kate’s cheeks were slightly flushed as she entered 
her bedroom and turned on the electric light. She 
even found herself humming a gay air as she began 
to undress. Midway in her preparations for the 
night — to be exact, it was at the moment when she 
had taken off* one stocking and was about to remove 
the other — her introspective mood returned, and, 
seated on the edge of her bed, with her head resting 
on her hands, she renewed the mental conflict that 
was to determine her future course. The Graytown 
path seemed as drab and as dreary as before, but its 
alternative had assumed a rosy hue that had been 
invisible to her earlier in the evening. She wondered 
why, during the half-hour that she had spent before 
the gas-log, she had not once thought of Ernest Tel- 
ford. Now that she had listened to his voice over 
the telephone she could think of no one else. His 
few words of sympathy had touched her deeply, 
and now his friendship assumed an importance in 
her mind that she was at a loss to account for. 
Looking back to her earliest acquaintance with him, 
she could not recall the time when she had not found 
him deferential in his manner and sincere in his 
friendly regard. His way of looking at her had been 
different from that of the other men on the staff, 
178 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


for while they had often made her blush with shame 
and indignation by furtively eying her, as if ap- 
praising her good points for some market of feminine 
flesh, he had always looked her straight in the eye 
and apparently taken cognizance of her face rather 
than of her figure. Surely here was one man who 
could be trusted, and she resolved to hear what he 
had to say before definitely making up her mind in 
regard to her future. 

She was going to bed with a heart greatly light- 
ened when a thought flashed across her mind that 
took the fine edge off her happiness. Why had Tel- 
ford never noticed her figure? Was it because he 
did not find it beautiful? She jumped up and looked 
at herself in the glass. Surely he might have deigned 
to glance at it now and then. Was it because he 
was indifferent to feminine charms? If so, he was 
the only man in New York of whom that could be 
said. More likely that he was so much in love with 
some other woman that he could see no beauty in 
girls whom he merely knew casually in the office. 
It had been said in the hen-coop that his family 
was one of social prominence and that he himself 
was frequently bidden to the august revels of the 
Four Hundred. Then it must be some society wom- 
an who had enchained his fancy. And Kate went 
to rest wishing that she had not carried her specula- 
tions quite so far. 

She had many things to attend to the next morning; 
but at ten o’clock she was dressed to receive her caller. 

“Well!” cried Lady Clara, as Kate entered the 
parlor. “I never knew you to dress up like that in 
the middle of the day. You must be either going out 
to lunch or else expecting a visitor.” 

13 179 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“How do I look?” inquired Kate, turning herself 
round for inspection. 

“You never looked better!” exclaimed the older 
woman, forgetting her own troubles in her generous 
enthusiasm. “You certainly have a lovely figure, 
and that gown shows it off to perfection,” she added, 
whereat the other smiled her satisfaction. 

She had dressed herself with infinite care in a close- 
ly fitting frock of white duck, whose stiffly starched 
skirts gave forth an agreeable rustling sound as she 
walked. A single deep red rose thrust into her 
bosom harmonized with the rich coloring of her face 
and invited attention to the exquisitely rounded bust 
on which it reposed. Lady Clara, who, like most 
fashion-writers, was the worst-dressed of women, 
was also an excellent judge of costume in others. 
She cast a critical eye over her from the crown of 
her glossy head to the tips of her white, low-cut 
shoes and smiled approvingly. Kate lifted her 
rustling skirts so as to display the stockings of white 
silk drawn tightly over her slender ankles. 

“I always regarded you as a girl who didn’t know 
her own good points,” said Lady Clara, “but I see 
now that I was mistaken. And I imagined that you 
were indifferent to all men except Penfield. Now, 
you never got yourself up like that to please a woman, 
so Lm convinced that you’ve had some other man 
up your sleeve all the time. Whoever he is, I hope 
he’ll treat you better than the other did. He cer- 
tainly couldn’t treat you any worse. Here he comes 
now!” she exclaimed, excitedly, as the telephone 
bell rang and Kate hurried to answer it. 

“Tell him to come right up,” Lady Clara heard 
her say, and then Kate re-entered the parlor and 
i8o 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


threw herself into an easy-chair. “I want you to 
watch this man/’ she said, ‘‘and see if he pays the 
slightest attention to me or seems to notice that I 
have put on my very best clothes for his especial 
benefit. If he doesn’t, it’s the last time I’ll take 
the trouble to look nice for him or for any man.” 

But for once Telford appeared to take notice. 
For the first time in all her acquaintance with him 
his eye rested with interest and approval on the 
outlines of her graceful, rounded figure; for the first 
time she saw something that was more than mere 
admiration kindle in his face as he noted — or seemed 
to note — the rich color in her cheeks that matched 
the deep red rose at her breast. For once this quiet, 
self-contained man had been brought down from 
the lofty heights of polite indifference and forced to 
acknowledge that she had qualities that entitled her 
to recognition, especially when she had taken pains 
to show them to the best advantage. 

“I came here to condole with you over your ill 
fortune,” said Telford, his eyes still shining their 
approval; “but it seems more appropriate to com- 
pliment you on your good looks. A girl who looks 
as well and dresses as well as you will have no trou- 
ble in getting along in New York. Meantime,” he 
added, handing her an unsealed note, “my mother 
hopes that you will do us the honor of dining with 
us on Saturday, which is, as you know, my night off.” 

Kate was deeply moved and surprised, for Telford 
had no intimates in the office, and his home life was 
a mystery to the gossips of the hen-coop. She ac- 
cepted the invitation with frank expressions of pleas- 
ure, and after he had gone she made up her mind 
to stay in New York and fight it out. His genuine 

i8i 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


kindness touched her deeply and gave her the feel- 
ing that she had one friend on whom she could rely. 
She also rejoiced in the knowledge that for once he 
had found her attractive. 

Mrs. Grimmond, who had been a witness to his 
greeting and had then tactfully withdrawn to her 
own room, did not hesitate to free her mind after 
Telford’s departure. “My dear, I understand now 
why you took so much pains with yourself to-day. 
It was worth while, too, for his eyes showed what 
he thought as plainly as if it was written in big letters 
across his forehead. It’s a pity he’s poor, for he’s 
just one of the nicest men in all the newspaper busi- 
ness.” And to Lady Clara that meant the whole 
world — or at least that part of it to which Kate 
might reasonably aspire. 

“You’re always building romances,” said Kate, 
coloring slightly. 

“Did you ever know a decent woman who didn’t.?” 
inquired the other. “Well, I only hope something 
will come of it, for I can’t bear to think of you try- 
ing to get along here all by yourself. You’re alto- 
gether too good-looking for your own safety!” 

“Nevertheless, I’m going to try it,” said the 
younger woman, with the cheeriest smile that had 
appeared on her face since what she called her 
dihacle. 

Directly after luncheon Lady Clara went out, and 
Kate seated herself in the easy-chair and renewed 
her meditations of the night before. She found her- 
self now in a quite different mood. The future was 
not entirely obscured by clouds, and her vision 
seemed clearer, for she could discern in the not too 
remote distance something that looked like a aug-^ 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


cessful solution of the problem of existence. And, 
that solved, a career of real usefulness was more 
than a possibility. The past was clearer, too, so 
clear that she could see her mistakes and profit by 
them. And, looking back through wide-open eyes, 
she realized the important part that self-deception 
had played in bringing about her downfall. She had 
begun by deceiving herself in regard to Penfield, and 
it was on that sure foundation of disaster, self- 
humbugging, that her mistakes rested. And Lady 
Clara’s case was even more hopeless than hers, 
because she was still absolutely unable to see her 
danger. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


NEAT maid-servant admitted Kate to the hall- 



way of the Telfords’ apartment, helped her to re- 
move her wraps, and then opened the door leading 
into the little parlor. Telford, who had been stand- 
ing with his back to the wood-fire, came forward 
with outstretched hand to welcome her, and then 
presented her to his mother, who rose from her easy- 
chair to give her a cordial, smiling greeting. It was 
the first time that Kate had ever seen the rewrite- 
man in evening dress, and the thought crossed her 
mind that she had never realized before how much 
distinction he possessed. It was gratifying to think 
that he had thus adorned himself in her honor. 

The room was furnished in old mahogany that 
recalled to her mind the few fine pieces in her 
mother’s home. It was not overcrowded with use- 
less articles of adornment, nor were there many 
pictures on the walls. There was not a single signed 
theatrical photograph or framed newspaper cartoon 
to be seen anywhere; and it occurred to her that 
either of those interesting souvenirs of artistic life 
would have been sadly out of place. 

Her quick eye had taken in these details while 
Telford was drawing up an arm-chair before the fire 
with an even greater deference of manner than he 
usually showed her. She noticed also two or three 
well-filled bookcases ranged against the walls and 


184 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


a dozen or more new volumes lying on the center- 
table. Nothing to Wear and the Sparrowgrass 
Papers stamped the little library with the seal of 
an elder generation of New-Yorkers. For the first 
time since arriving in New York she found herself 
in a house in which good breeding was not an art 
as yet undiscovered or else irretrievably lost. 

The Telfords lived in an inexpensive flat in a 
cross-street that was thoroughly respectable but not 
fashionable. Knowing that their means were limited, 
Kate was surprised at the quiet elegance of their 
dining-room, with its fine old sideboard, its table of 
rich mahogany, with its highly polished silver and 
cut glass gleaming in the soft candle-light. There 
were mats on the table, for Mrs. Telford would not 
permit its beautiful surface to be hidden beneath a 
table-cloth. The tall candlesticks were of solid sil- 
ver, exquisitely fashioned; two heavy decanters of 
cut glass containing wine or spirits added a note of 
cheering color. It was evident that the family must 
at some time have been well-to-do. Indeed, that fact 
had long since been made known to Kate by the 
gossipy Lady Clara. 

It was apparent that the maid who had opened 
the door and who now waited at the table was their 
only servant; but, as the visitor noticed, no apology 
or explanations seemed necessary, even when some 
slight delay was occasioned by the performance of 
double duty. 

Never in her life had Kate Craven found herself 
at such a table or in such company. The meal was 
simple but very well cooked, and when the visitor 
accepted a second helping of dessert Telford ex- 
claimed: 


185 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“You’ve found a quick way to my mother’s heart, 
Miss Craven. She made that pudding herself, and 
she’s prouder of it than she is of me.” 

Soon after dinner Mrs. Telford withdrew to her 
own room, leaving her son and their guest sitting 
opposite to each other before the fire, the one 
puffing at his pipe, the other quietly watching the 
flames, with her chin resting on her hand, as was 
her habit when thinking. For almost the first time 
since the d^hdcle she felt at peace with herself and 
on terms of growing amiability with the world. 
Grateful for the contented silence that had fallen 
upon them, she remained for some moments without 
speaking. 

“I thought I had learned something about New 
York,” she said, at last, “but I never had any idea 
that there was such a home as this in it. It’s in a 
way like my own home in the country, only ever so 
much finer and more beautiful. And somehow your 
mother makes me think of my mother, though she’s 
not at all like her. And then you have such lovely 
pictures and such a number of good books — not mere 
novels, but books worth reading.” 

For a moment Telford continued to smoke in con- 
templative silence. Then he knocked the ashes 
from his pipe and said, in his low, well-bred voice: 

“Where did you gain your first ideas of New 
York? From the Sunday Megaphone?” 

“Yes, I rather think I did.” 

“And since you came here you’ve seen nothing 
that disabused your mind of those ideas — nothing 
that suggested to you that possibly those precon- 
ceived notions were erroneous?” 

“Very little until lately,” rejoined Kate, simply. 

1 86 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“What were your ideas of this town?” inquired 
Telford. 

“Well, I imagined it a city of contrasts, composed 
almost entirely of the very rich and the very poor — 
the former living in the greatest luxury, the others 
hungry and out of work — ” 

“Yes, and a society of four hundred brilliant 
women and dashing club-men, and a bright bohemian 
circle where they drink wine out of actresses’ slippers. 
My dear Miss Craven, all that is a mere mirage 
created largely by Mr. Barshfield for the benefit of 
his circulation; a mirage that is plainly visible from 
afar but dissolves into thin air as you draw near. 
So long as you were helping to create and sustain 
these illusions by your work on the Woman’s Page 
it was better that you should believe in them, but 
now that you are out in the open, fighting for your 
very existence, you should have a clearer vision.” 

A remembrance of the glare she had seen in the 
sky from the car window as she first approached New 
York flashed across the girl’s mind. “I wish you 
would tell me just what you mean,” she said, very 
earnestly. 

“I mean,” said Telford, “that what you believed 
to be the real New York does not exist, except in the 
imaginations of the Megaphone s readers. There is 
no exclusive four hundred who dominate society; 
there are no brilliant women and club-men of the 
sort that you read about. The truth in regard to 
the starving millions on the East Side has already 
been made known to you in a painful but eflTective 
fashion. The sooner you rid your mind of all 
those other myths the better it will be for you.” 

“Do you mean to tell me that there are no brill- 
187 


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iant women in society?’’ demanded Kate, in amaze- 
ment. 

‘‘Show me one!” said Telford, quietly. “There 
are a few older women in the town to whom that 
term might be applied,” he added, “but the brilliant 
young woman who can make or unmake an artistic 
reputation, who can discuss Kant’s Critique on Pure 
Reason with Herbert Spencer to his own enlighten- 
ment, and whose drawing-room is thronged with real 
celebrities — that young person simply does not exist. 
Nor, for that matter, does the club-man, that hero 
of modern fiction, who is the mere appanage of his 
valet. There are a great many men who belong to 
good clubs — in fact, I am one of them — but the sort 
of man you read about is not of the number. Many 
of the men whom I know keep valets, while a still 
greater number do not. But they are employed as 
servants, and not as topics of conversation or mentors 
of form. Strangely enough, 3^ou cannot tell the dif- 
ference between a man thus served and one who is 
not.” 

“But wouldn’t you call Miss Smithers a brilliant 
woman?” inquired Kate. 

“Heavens no!” rejoined Telford. “She cuts a 
brilliant figure in the mythical New York that papers 
of the Megaphone sort have created, but that is 
simply because she fills her parlors with people 
whom she imagines to be celebrities because their 
names are constantly in print. There’s nothing brill- 
iant in that, and her achievement seems particularly 
small when you consider that she doesn’t know the 
difference between real distinction and mere adver- 
tising. If that kind-hearted, well-bred, credulous, 
and sweet-natured woman knows the real names of 
i88 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


all the foreigners she entertains and the various 
occupations that furnish them with a livelihood she 
is ten times as brilliant as I think she is. It’s a pity 
that a woman who has as many good qualities as 
Carolyn Smithers should devote her time, her 
thoughts, and her father’s money to the winning of 
a place in the public estimation no better than that 
occupied by Mrs. Chilton-Smythe, who has no good 
qualities whatever, so far as I have found out. By 
the way, I suppose you know that she contributed 
to your downfall by writing a letter to Barshfield 
asking him to discharge you?” 

“Are you sure of that?” demanded Kate, eagerly. 

“Absolutely sure,” responded Telford. “Your 
friend Penfield shifted the responsibility for the 
East Side pictures on to your shoulders, and her 
letter came along at the same time.” 

“It’s prett}^ hard,” said Kate, with a slight tremor 
in her voice, “to be sacrificed in that way by two of 
your best friends.” 

“That’s another thing you must rid your mind of 
before you can hope to succeed — this myth in regard 
to friends. Most inexperienced women, and not a 
few who ought to know better, count as their friends 
the persons for whom they are constantly doing 
things, whereas it is just the other way. Your real 
friends are those who are always trying to do some- 
thing for you. Now you’ve been of enormous ser- 
vice to Penfield, as I happen to know% but what has 
he ever done for you except ask you to dinner at a 
cheap restaurant? I saw him the other day lunching 
in Delmonico’s with Miss Smithers and some other 
woman. Did he ever take you there? No, I 
thought not. By the way, did you ever realize hov/ 
189 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


much you have contributed to his success by the 
assistance you have given him? There was a certain 
quality in his work that puzzled me at first. That 
quality has disappeared/’ 

‘^But it was Mr. Penfield who brought me to New 
York and gave me my opportunity,” said Kate. 

“You mean that your coming here gave him his 
opportunity. He’s been relying on you ever since, 
and you may console yourself with the knowledge 
that without your aid he will be utterly unable to 
sustain his reputation. Then he’ll come around and 
try to explain matters and ask you to be friendly 
again so that you can help him some more.” 

“Never!” exclaimed Kate, with a vehemence that 
surprised the other, and pleased him, too. “I’m 
beginning to see clearly now, and nothing will ever 
induce me to help Mr. Penfield again or to have 
anything whatever to do with him. Mother never 
liked him. She always warned me against him; but 
I was so blind I couldn’t see through him.” 

“I’m glad to hear that,” said the other. “Well, 
you’ve only to wait patiently to see him fall. I know 
Barshfield and his henchmen as the naturalist knows 
the beasts of the forest, and I can tell you that Pen- 
field is marked for destruction. Do you imagine 
that Vanderlip and Macy are going to sit quietly by 
and see him establish himself a step or two above 
them on the throne?” 

“ But they’ve been so friendly with him and helped 
him so much! Are you sure they want to injure 
him?” 

“There you go again with your talk about friends!” 
exclaimed Telford. “They’re about as friendly to 
him as he is to you!” He paused a moment and 
190 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


then went on in slightly altered tones: “You may 
have wondered why I am content to be a rewrite- 
man on the Megaphone instead of trying to make a 
name for myself. Well, the reason is that my posi- 
tion is a comparatively secure one. I occupy a little 
niche by myself outside the line of promotion, and 
I am safe from the machinations of office politics. 
Vanderlip and Macy have long ago satisfied them- 
selves that I have no ambition to become city editor 
or managing editor or anything else, and the result 
is that they not only let me alone, but treat me with 
the greatest consideration. I am useful to them 
because of what I can do with the copy that dull, 
ignorant reporters turn in. That enables them to 
dispense with really clever men who might attract 
Barshfield’s attention. Moreover, to be successful 
in the trade of writing you should believe in what 
you are doing. I can put my whole heart into the 
work of improving another man’s copy, but I am 
out of sympathy with this scheme of wholesale mis- 
representation that Barshfield clings to. Besides, 
the real New York is a far more interesting and de- 
lightful community than the city of sensational con- 
trasts that journalistic fancy has created.” 

“But surely the wealth of the city is genuine? I 
see evidences of that on every hand.” 

“Oh, there’s plenty of wealth, although the Mega- 
phone school of thought attributes to it much greater 
power than it possesses. Don’t make the mistake 
of confounding money with social position. In spite 
of all the hue and cry about our national love of 
dollars, mere money does not count for nearly as 
much here as it does in London, where everything, 
from a coronet to a marriageable daughter, is mar- 
191 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


ketable. With a few notable exceptions, the enor- 
mously rich families of the town are more thoroughly 
out of everything worth having than any other class. 
Their very wealth is an insurmountable barrier be- 
tween them and really agreeable society, and to my 
mind they are much to be pitied. It is seldom that 
anybody ever rings the bell at one of those great, 
costly mansions on upper Fifth Avenue except to 
ask for something. The number of very rich people 
who take an active part in social life is surprisingly 
small. That is why the changes are constantly 
rung on a very few conspicuous names in the society 
columns.’^ 

“But I have always heard it said that, socially at 
least. New York was a place for the rich, not for the 
poor,’’ said Kate, whose keen, receptive mind was 
eagerly absorbing everything that the other said. 
She was a good listener and never missed a chance to 
learn something. 

“That idea is about as ridiculous as any of the 
other myths that help to swell the Megaphone s Sun- 
day circulation,” retorted Telford, promptly. “It’s 
a poor place for a millionaire because the demands 
on his purse and his sympathies — if he has any left — 
are so constant and exorbitant. But it’s a paradise 
for a poor man of talent or agreeable manners or 
any other good qualities. I can’t speak for your 
own sex, but I do know something about what the 
town has to offer to a young man who can give some- 
thing in return. Society is composed of those who 
come together in order to eat, drink, and be merry. 
The rich and idle are only too glad to furnish the food 
and drink, but they must look to the poor to pro- 
vide the merriment. Rich people are seldom merry 
192 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


among themselves. There are about three thou- 
sand millionaires in New York and vicinity, and only 
about forty millionaire names for the society re- 
porter to ring the changes on. Even at that, the 
joyousness of their revels is largely a myth like the 
rest of Barshfield’s New York — the starving millions, 
for example. You’ve already found out how much 
truth there is in that legend.” 

‘‘But there must be a great deal of poverty here,” 
said Kate. “To be sure, the East Side wasn’t nearly 
as terrible as I had imagined it. I didn’t see any- 
thing that looked at all like a slum, but perhaps I 
didn’t look in the right place.” 

“Of course there are poor people in New York. 
It is they whom we have always with us. But they’re 
not numbered by the millions. There are those who 
are incapacitated by age or infirmity and cannot 
work, and others who will not work; there are also 
many who are temporarily out of work. But, with 
the exception of those who depend habitually on 
charity, the poor are the proudest people in the town. 
If you want to help them you must seek them out 
and use all the tact and kindliness at your command 
to induce them to let you help them. There’s more 
pride of that sort in a tenement house than in a 
dozen Fifth Avenue mansions. The poorest people 
of all are those who have to keep up appearances. 
You can’t get up soup-houses for them! In the old- 
fashioned New York it was customary for the well- 
to-do to look after the poor whom they knew. Every 
family had its pensioners; but the big fortunes have 
changed all that. The distance from upper Fifth 
Avenue is so great — quite as great as the distance 
from fifty millions to nothing at all — that there is 

193 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


no longer the old personal contact between the tw'o 
extremes of poverty and wealth. The rich give gen- 
erously — ril say that for them — but it’s to institu- 
tions rather than to individuals, and in so doing 
they have bred professional paupers and professional 
alms-distributers as well. Too often the millionaire 
thinks that in giving liberally to a hospital or asylum 
he has done all that can be expected of him. If he 
were not so busy he might find that a large propor- 
tion of his charity is wasted in salaries to idle secre- 
taries, treasurers, and superintendents. So you see 
that the deserving poor fall between the upper mill- 
stone of careless generosity and the lower one that 
grabs every dollar as it falls.” 

“Where does all the money come from? Wall 
Street?” asked Kate, innocently. 

“Wall Street,” exclaimed Telford, contemptuous- 
ly, “ is a vast desert moistened by occasional floods 
of money. During these periods of irrigation the 
brokers bold out their tin cups and catch what they 
can; but when the floods cease there ensues such a 
financial drought as is not known in any other field 
of industry in the land. No desert in the world 
absorbs as much as Wall Street, and none yields as 
little in return. What is called “making money” 
there means simply successful betting on the volume 
of the floods that regulate the market.” 

“ But what becomes of all the money that pours 
into the desert?” persisted Kate. 

“That is a problem that has puzzled the wisest 
philosophers in the town,” replied the other. “The 
greater part of it finds its way into pockets already 
well lined; good-looking actresses, traveling in 
couples for mutual protection, get some now and 
194 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


then in exchange for tickets for a theatrical benefit; 
the rest is distributed in small sums through the 
merry quarters of the town. But not a tenth of the 
enormous sums absorbed by Wall Street is ever 
accounted for.” 

‘‘Don’t the brokers spend a great deal of money 
at their clubs.?” asked Kate. 

“That’s another illusion — the club life of New 
York,” answered Telford. “I suppose you picture 
to yourself a group of men lolling about a gorgeous 
room telling one another about their valets.? Well, 
I spent an hour at my club this afternoon waiting 
to see a friend. For some mysterious reason all the 
worst bores in the town belong to the best clubs, 
and nearly all of them are noted for their regular 
attendance. Judged either by the length of the 
waiting-list or the number and persistency of its 
bores, the club to which I belong is about the best 
in the city. There was an excited group in one of 
the Fifth Avenue windows when I arrived this after- 
noon. Somebody had made a bet with somebody 
else as to how many colored persons would pass 
the club in an hour. In another window a broker 
was telling one of those funny stock-market stories 
— probably about how Charlie got his maiden aunt 
to exchange her Pennsylvania bonds for Confederate 
money. Sadly I made my way to the billiard-room, 
where one of the club wits was awakening roars of 
laughter with a story that seemed new to every one, 
although I happen to know that it is graven on the 
obelisk in Central Park. The fact is,” he continued, 
soberly, “this is a bad town for an idle man. There’s 
something in the air that makes occupation of some 
sort a necessity. Moreover, an idle man is quite 
14 195 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


out of it here. I think that accounts for the number 
of women who are getting restless and trying to 
occupy themselves in serious work.” 

“Those women always interested me, even when 
I first read about them at home long before I ever 
thought of coming to New York. Don’t you think 
they’re beginning to have a great influence in public 
aflPairs?” exclaimed the young girl, eagerly. 

“Women have always exerted a great influence 
in everything,” replied the other, gravely; “but 
don’t make the mistake of crediting too much in- 
fluence to those that the Megaphone plays up so 
persistently in the interest of Circulation, the only 
god that Barshfield believes in. It pleases the pub- 
lic to think that it was a good-looking young woman 
who started the cheering at the convention, or led 
the cigarette-girls’ strike, or brought the disabled 
ship into port, or did any of the other things we say 
she did. That’s much more interesting than if it 
were done by mere man.” 

It was half past ten when Kate rose to take her 
leave. The city of her imagination had been brought 
down about her ears in hopeless ruins. Telford’s 
words had dissipated the mirage of circulation- 
building romance and revealed the cold, matter-of- 
fact reality. She was beginning to see clearly now, 
but her very knowledge was a source of discourage- 
ment to her. She understood now what Telford 
meant when he said that to succeed it was necessary 
to believe in what you were doing. A feeling of 
something like resentment flared up for a moment 
in her breast at the thought that he had deprived 
her of the only means of livelihood at her .command. 

Telford went with her in the street-car. The 
196 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


theater audiences were dispersing and the sidewalks 
were thronged with people, some hurrying to their 
homes and others pouring into the restaurants for 
a late supper with which to bring their evening’s 
entertainment to a fitting close. 

‘‘There’s only one feature left of the city of my 
dreams,” said Kate, glancing at the crowds and 
the glare of electric lights, “and that is the Great 
White Way. Certainly that, at least, is a reality. 
With all your cynicism you can’t deny that.” 

“Let’s walk these last few blocks,” said Telford, 
rising from his seat. As they gained the sidewalk 
he resumed his work of demolishing the mirage that 
still obscured the other’s vision. “The electric 
lights are here, but the crowd is no more representa- 
tive of New York than the rilfralF of the Parisian 
boulevards represents the real French people. Look 
at this mob and tell me how many of them are New- 
Yorkers! I should say that fully three-quarters of 
them are strangers who have come to see what they 
call the sights. The real New-Yorkers get olF Broad- 
way the instant they leave the theater — ^you can see 
them now disappearing down the side-streets — but 
the jays will continue to gorge themselves in the 
restaurants and walk up and down the thorough- 
fare till long after midnight, by which time they and 
the vultures who prey upon them will have the place 
to themselves. You can see more jays and yaps 
and crooks on this block than on the same length of 
sidewalk in any town in the country. Look at them 
and judge for yourself what they are. You can 
understand now why foreigners go back home after 
a six weeks’ stay here and say that Americans have 
no homes.” 


197 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


The young girl looked around her and was forced 
to admit the truth of her companion’s words. ‘‘Is 
there any real New York?” she cried, in despair. 

“Certainly there is. You’ll find it in the cross- 
streets, a part of the town that I dare say had no 
place in the mirage that the Sunday Megaphone 
offered to your view.” 

“That’s very true,” murmured Kate, thoughtfully. 

“It is there,” continued Telford, “that you will 
find those wise New-Yorkers who are out of sym- 
pathy with the maniacal struggle for millions and 
the sort of social position that society reporters have 
created. Too wise to devote their whole lives to a 
pursuit of enormous wealth, which only a very few 
of us can ever attain, or a society vastly inferior to 
their own, they content themselves with a dinner 
of herbs and pick their friends instead of seeking 
die acquaintance of those that Park Row holds up 
for their adulation. To find any sane happiness in 
New York life you must keep out of the various fierce 
competitions that are going on all around you. 
Fifth Avenue simply swarms with outlanders who 
are willing to shed human blood for the purpose of 
acquiring millions or getting into society. What 
chance would you or I have in such a fight?” 

“You’ve destroyed a whole lot of my ideals,” said 
Kate, almost regretfully, as she paused before her 
door to say good night. “I feel more adrift now 
than I did the night I came here a perfect stranger. 
But you’ve given me an idea of the real New York 
that I never had before.” 

“Then I will come and see you very soon and help 
you to erect a new and real New York on the ruins 
of your dreams.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


T ADY CLARA went out early the next morning, 
^ leaving Kate free to resume her meditations. 
She found herself in a far more hopeful mood than 
any that she had experienced since that awful mo- 
ment when Penfield had rung her up on the tele- 
phone to upbraid her for her fault and accuse her 
of ingratitude. More than one of her dreams had 
been shattered since then, and less than twelve hours 
had elapsed since the mirage of a city that did not 
exist had been shattered before her gaze by the cold 
breath of truth, or what Lady Clara would have 
called ‘‘cynicism.” But, thanks to that cynicism, 
she could see more clearly now, and the thing that 
impressed itself most deeply on her mind was the 
fact that women like Lady Clara and herself were 
at the mercy of men like Penfield and Macy and 
women like Mrs. Chilton-Smythe. To succeed as 
they had succeeded meant that she herself must 
adopt their hard, merciless methods instead of 
feminine smiles and cajolery. She disliked intensely 
the idea of winning her place for herself through the 
alluring power of her sex. It was in this way that 
women of the class she had seen on the stage, in 
restaurants, and other public places had achieved 
their aims. Surely there should be room in the 
complex and variegated life of the town for a woman 
to succeed through sheer force of ability. With her 
199 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


own native gifts, backed by her brief experience in 
Park Row, such a success seemed to her well with- 
in the bounds of possibility, and she resolved that 
she would try for it. That decision having been 
reached, a far more difficult problem presented it- 
self. The Woman’s Page had no further charm. 
She had sounded its depths and found them vain 
and shallow. The mere thought of writing laudatory 
stories about Mrs. Chilton-Smythe filled her honest 
soul with loathing. And well she knew that there 
was not an office in all Park Row in which the name 
of that famous society leader did not rank high for 
its ‘‘news value.” 

The weeks that followed proved the bitterest ex- 
perience in Kate’s life. Realizing the necessity for 
rigid economy, she set herself to the task of re- 
organizing Lady Clara’s heedless and wasteful 
scheme of housekeeping, stopped her reckless use of 
telephone, gas-log, and electric light, bought the 
household supplies herself, and prepared the meals, 
and by these and other methods brought the cost 
of living down to a point that proved a genuine sur- 
prise to the elder woman when the monthly bills 
came in. 

Lady Clara was delighted and genuinely grateful; 
so much so, in fact, that she proposed giving a Sun- 
day-evening party for nine of the most worthless of 
her friends. But Kate put her foot down firmly 
and at the same time warned Lady Clara that if 
she did not hand over her week’s salary to her 
every Tuesday until her debts were all paid, she 
would abandon her eflForts at retrenchment for their 
common good and seek the shelter of a boarding- 
house, where she could devote all her time to her 
200 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


own work. Meanwhile she was doing her best to 
get employment. 

She found this no easy matter. She wrote one 
article after another, usually on some topic of in- 
terest to women, and offered them to women’s pages 
and magazines only to have them returned, some- 
times with a printed card of refusal, but frequently 
without a line of explanation. When no less than 
eight of her manuscripts had made their dreary 
rounds, seeking vainly for acceptance, she acknowl- 
edged that there must be something wrong with 
them. Something was wrong. The illuminating 
conversation of Ernest Telford had cleared her mind 
of its illusions and left her incapable of writing the 
flabby “woman’s stuff” that the editors were all 
looking for. The old skill in the graceful and use- 
ful art of elaborating harmless platitudes had de- 
parted. She was writing from a new point of view, 
and for this sort of work there seemed to be no 
market. Through many hours of melancholy brood- 
ing before the gray gas-log, which her economy would 
not permit her to light, she almost reached the con- 
clusion that she had been wrong in permitting Tel- 
ford to shed the light of truth on her mind. 

At the end of six weeks she found herself with 
her savings melting toward the vanishing-point and 
success apparently as far off as eVer. She knew that 
Lady Clara would pay all the expenses of the flat 
rather than let her give up the game and go back 
to Gray town; but to sponge on that amiable and 
long-suffering woman was not to be thought of, 
especially when she recalled her own sermons to her. 
And yet to go away and leave her to bear all the 
expense that they had shared between them would 
201 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


be almost as bad. Moreover, she had made up her 
mind to conquer the town, to make a place for her- 
self that would yield her a livelihood and perhaps 
provide her honestly with some of the luxuries that 
other women acquired by methods that to her were 
inconceivable. Urban life had already bred in her 
heart cravings that she had never known in her 
country days. She felt that she could not turn her 
back on all that it had to offer and take up again a 
scheme of existence, at mere thought of which her 
whole soul revolted. 

To ‘‘make up one’s mind” means very little in 
the case of a weak, vacillating nature, but for one 
who has a mind to make up it is apt to prove nine- 
tenths of the battle. Kate Craven had a mind of 
her own, and therefore her resolution to remain in 
New York, no matter what the cost in privation, 
anxiety, and the many other ills that dog the heels 
of those embarking on a ‘‘career,” was an affair of 
no small moment, for it meant that she must succeed 
or perish in the attempt. 

At this time a strike of the young women employed 
in the cloak industry was attracting no small amount 
of attention. Like all sudden seethings of the met- 
ropolitan pot, this valiant but ineffective protest 
against cruelly unfair conditions had brought a few 
new names into the printed page that reflects tem- 
porary fame and added a few portraits to the gallery 
of the Megaphone*s art department. Among these 
names was that of Sarah von Schneider, who figured 
in the news columns as a wealthy woman who had 
devoted much time to the study of sociology in the 
chief cities of Germany and was now actively en- 
gaged in egging on the strikers. 

202 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Kate’s newspaper experience had long since taught 
her that “sociology” is a good word to conjure with, 
not only because of its length and limpid sound, as 
of falling water, but because its true meaning is ob- 
scure to the popular mind and not every one can 
spell it. In these and other respects it is superior to 
such excellent words of one syllable as “chair” and 
“brick,” of whose exact significance no one has any 
sort of doubt and which consequently command no 
veneration. 

It occurred to her now that by interviewing Mrs. 
von Schneider in regard to labor conditions in the 
older countries and dishing up her observations 
under the caption of “Sociological Investigations” 
she might produce an article which, in view of the 
local disturbance in the cloak trade, would possess 
that “timely value” so dear to the editorial heart. 
With this idea in her head she called on Mr. Marshall 
at his office in the Planet building and briefly laid 
her scheme before him. 

Marshall received her with a kindly sympathy that 
quite touched her and readily agreed to accept an 
interview with Mrs. von Schneider. His were the 
first encouraging words she had heard from the lips 
of authority since she started out to earn her living 
as a free lance, and she hastened away to the hotel 
where the labor agitator was stopping. As she en- 
tered the apartment she met with one of the most 
sensational surprises in her life. Mrs. von Schneider 
was none other than her old acquaintance — never her 
friend — of Graytown days, Sadie Hazelrigg, whose 
elopement with the coachman had given Penfield his 
great opportunity. She had exchanged the coachman 
for the “Von” and lost nothing in the transaction. 

203 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


A sudden recollection of the publicity she had 
helped to give to the elopement reddened Kate’s 
cheeks, but her momentary doubts as to the other’s 
feelings were quickly swept away as Mrs. von 
Schneider seized her impulsively by the hand, 
crying: 

“Well, I am glad to see you. When I saw your 
card I wondered if it could possibly be my little 
home friend, but I never knew you were working 
on the Planet. Sit down and take off your things 
and tell me what you’ve been doing all these years!” 

“That’s just what I was going to ask you — ^what 
you’ve been doing all these years!” rejoined Kate, 
smilingly. “In fact, I came here especially to inter- 
view you for the Planet on the conditions of labor in 
Europe; but I hadn’t the least idea that Mrs. von 
Schneider was the Miss Hazelrigg I used to know so 
long ago.” 

“You dear sweet thing!” exclaimed the other, 
her face beaming with what looked like kindliness, 
but which was merely her delight at the thought of 
getting into the newspaper columns. “Certainly 
you may interview me. I’ll have lunch sent up 
here, and we can talk as we eat.” 

“I understand,” said Kate, “that you’ve been in 
Europe studying the labor question? I haven’t 
heard anything of you since your marriage, so per- 
haps you won’t mind telling me just where you’ve 
been.” 

“In Paris and London most of the time, and in 
Berlin, too. Oh yes, I studied the labor problem 
everywhere. I suppose you read about how I led 
the strike last Tuesday? It was splendid. I made 
a speech to them on the sidewalk, and got them so 
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excited that they made a rush for the scabs when 
they came out of the shop. Three of them got ar- 
rested, but the police were so hateful they wouldn’t 
arrest me, though I dared them to. One of them had 
the impertinence to tell me to go home and mind the 
baby. I think the police force is a disgrace to the 
city, and, what’s more, it’s rotten with graft. But 
the Planet printed my picture the next day with the 
heading ‘The Joan of Arc of the Cloak Strike.’ It’s 
a wonder you didn’t see it in your own paper.” 

Mrs. von Schneider looked at her reproachfully — 
a little suspiciously, Kate thought, as she hastened 
to answer. 

“I never dreamed it was you. But what did they 
do to the girls they arrested? Send them to prison?” 

“I don’t know. I was posing for the Planet man 
and didn’t notice,” replied the other. “But I’ll 
make them arrest me next time if I have to break 
a window. Then all the papers will have to take 
notice of me. But, after all, what can you expect 
in a graft-ridden town like this?” 

“How do women’s wages in Germany compare 
with those in this country?” asked Kate. 

“Oh, I guess they must be higher; anyhow, the 
working-women that I saw seemed to look all right. 
The same way in France. There’s nothing anywhere 
in Europe as bad as the conditions here, with thou- 
sands of starving people everywhere in the town.” 

“Whereabouts.?” asked Kate, rather sharply, as a 
memory of the well-fed children who had proved her 
own ruin came back to her. 

“Whereabouts?” echoed Sadie. ‘‘Why, over on 
the East Side and down in the slums. I’ve been 
studying the labor conditions, and I ought to know. 

. 205 


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Now, take the case of those poor girls that got 
arrested! I feel for them because theyVe got their 
living to make the same as you have. Say, I tell 
you what would be a grand idea! Take a picture of 
me in the midst of them all and call it ‘The Modern 
Joan of Arc Leading her Hosts on to Victory.’ That 
would help to fill out your page nicely.” 

“Til tell you what Til do,” said Kate, brightly; 
“Til write an interview with you about the question 
of women’s wages here and abroad on condition that 
you stand for everything I say.” 

“Sure I will,” said Sadie, emphatically. 

“And I’ll try to get your picture in, too, if there’s 
room.” 

“And don’t forget about the modern Joan of 
Arc!” 

The interview, made up from a recent magazine 
article skilfully retold in dialogue form, was sent 
to Marshall and appeared the following Sunday, to 
the great delight of its author and the still greater 
joy of the modern Joan of Arc. Kate read it care- 
fully through, seated before the gas-log, lighted in 
honor of this hopeful change in her fortunes. Lady 
Clara had gone out to lunch with some friends who 
hoped to borrow money from her, and a peaceful. 
Sabbath-like air pervaded the little flat. The fifteen 
dollars that she was to receive for the article meant 
a good deal to Kate just now, and it meant still more 
to realize that the luck had changed at last and 
that her hand had not altogether lost its cunning. 

Late that afternoon she received from Mrs. von 
Schneider a letter congratulating her on the “nice 
little story” she had printed, and offering to furnish 
her with material for another whenever she felt that 
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she was running short of ideas. Her tone was that 
of one conferring a favor, and Kate smiled cynically, 
recalling others of the kind that she had received 
in the past from Mrs. Chilton-Smythe. Somehow 
the thought that she was getting only fifteen dollars 
for bestowing undeserved fame of much greater 
value on Mrs. von Schneider was not a pleasant 
one. 

“For what reason should I devote my life to mak- 
ing other people famous.?’’ she asked herself. And 
then from the clear sky of her imagination the terse 
reply came: “For money!” It was precisely at this 
moment that Telford, who possessed the gift — far 
more rare in men than in women — of appearing now 
and then when he was badly needed, presented him- 
self at her door. 

“Well, have you arrived at any conclusions re- 
garding your career?” was his query, as he laid aside 
his overcoat. 

“I’ve been thinking of becoming a sort of press- 
agent,” she replied, and she rapidly made known to 
him her idea. 

“An excellent scheme,” said Telford, with some- 
thing like real enthusiasm in his voice. “Press- 
agency is a profession of growing importance in this 
country, and one that very few understand. Papers 
like the Megaphone have not only stimulated a 
thirst for fame, but have also shown that it was 
within the reach of even the least conspicuous citi- 
zen. Just as the early settlers introduced rum 
among the Indians and then supplied it to them at 
a profit, so has an enlightened press created a thirst 
for notoriety, thereby founding a trade that offers 
glorious opportunities to those wise enough to take 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


advantage of them. In olden times only a few kings, 
poets, statesmen, and warriors gained fame, and then 
they had to work for it. Now it is to be had for 
the buying. Its fitting symbol then was a wreath of 
bay leaves. Now it is a smear of greasy printer’s 
ink. Modern ideas have greatly facilitated the prog- 
ress of the climber up the difficult heights of Par- 
nassus. I take it that you propose to show the 
easiest route to those who linger about the base, 
uncertain how to gain the summit.?” 

“That is precisely my idea,” replied Kate, “only 
you have clothed it in such beautiful language that 
I scarcely recognize it. Moreover, you have in- 
vested it with a poetic idealism that raises it to a 
plane of such lofty dignity that to call it ‘press work’ 
would be to vulgarize it. Please proceed with your 
work of illumination. Why don’t you smoke? I 
know you like to.” 

“Thank you,” said Telford, drawing a cigarette 
from his pocket. “I fancy I talk better when I 
smoke, but I am apt to talk longer, too, so you know 
what lies before you. To begin with, you have not 
only chosen an excellent calling — to supply a much- 
needed commodity is always a sound commercial 
proposition — but also one for which you are well 
fitted by native talent, sharpened by experience.” 

“Bitter experience, too,” observed Kate. 

“The only kind that gives a razor-edge to the 
tools of effort,” rejoined the other, promptly. “Our 
life here below is so ordained that you can always 
avenge yourself on evil fortune by learning some- 
thing from every ill that befalls. Your periods of 
happiness and prosperity, your streaks of good luck 
seldom teach you anything. One thing that I think 
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you are beginning to learn is the difference between 
things as they are and things as they appear to the 
popular mind.” 

“Any knowledge that I have on that subject I 
owe to you,” said Kate, with a polite bow. “You 
have opened my eyes. But at the same time you 
have deprived me of some of my confidence. I feel 
rather adrift just now. It’s not so easy for me to 
write if Fve lost faith in what I am writing, and I 
am not yet safe on my feet in the real world that 
you were good enough to show me.” 

“Nothing easier in the world!” exclaimed Telford, 
emphatically. “You must regard this imaginary 
world as the stage of a theater presenting an illusion 
in which the audience believes, and with you your- 
self as a manager who arranges the different scenes 
and tells the players what parts they are to per- 
form. Some will be club-men, others brilliant women 
like Miss Smithers, others great leaders of philan- 
thropic betterments like Mrs. Chilton-Smythe— and 
you alone must realize that they are all actors work- 
ing, not for the glory of society or the advancement 
of humankind, but for their own salaries or their 
own renown. Now you must find some one who 
will be willing to pay for the privilege of appearing 
among the other puppets in a role of distinction — 
one that will make a deep impression on the open- 
mouthed clowns who make up your audience. There 
are always plenty of people anxious to appear in 
the lime-light. All you have to do is to find one 
or more who will pay liberally for the opportunity. 
The question is, who will be your first client?” 

“I was wondering whether anything could be done 
with Roberta Rowenna,” said Kate, tentatively. 

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‘‘Has she any money?’’ inquired her mentor, in 
business-like tones. 

“Lady Clara tells me she has an independent in- 
come of her own.” 

“Then try her, by all means. And, remember, 
she must have a distinct role to play on your little 
stage — one that will present her in a much more 
favorable light than that in which she appeared in 
the divorce court. Women of that sort are always 
fond of posing as leaders of intellectual movements. 
So if you can think of some form of what is termed 
‘uplift’ in which she could take part it will cer- 
tainly appeal to her. You can’t satisfy her with 
a few paragraphs stating that she is about to join 
the Milwaukee stock company or that she has aban- 
doned her idea of appearing in the Bernhardt reper- 
toire.” 

“But I can’t imagine Mrs. Rowenna doing any- 
thing intellectual. She seems to be entirely destitute 
of brains. Lady Clara says she’s all temperament 
and lives on her emotions.” 

“Temperament and psychology,” said Telford, 
promptly, “are two of the most notable words that 
have been let loose in the dramatic profession since 
I first began to go to theaters. They are largely 
accountable for the decay in the art of acting, for 
which they provide a cheap, easy, and frequently 
nasty substitute. What is called ‘psychological 
acting’ bears the same relation to the true art of 
the stage that oleomargarine does to butter and 
brass to gold. And remember that doing something 
intellectual and doing something that will impress 
the ignorant as intellectual are two totally different 
things. I advise you to call on Mrs. Rowenna at 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


once and see if you can’t cook up something between 
you that will have a fine, brassy, intellectual ring. 
I wonder if you couldn’t make use of that idiotic 
Stadium scheme that somebody has suggested.” 

“I don’t quite understand,” said Kate. 

‘‘I think it suits your purpose exactly,” replied 
Telford, after a moment of quiet thought. “This 
proposition is to dig a hole in some fair spot like a 
lawn in Central Park, and there construct an amphi- 
theater to hold thirty thousand people in which 
actors who find it difficult to fill a bay-window may 
appear in plays that the public do not care to see. 
If you were to call it a hole in the ground it would 
have no appeal whatever, but the word Stadium 
transforms it into something of which the dominant 
minds of the town can safely approve. You can 
make the project your own by simply calling it the 
Staditorium. The learned classes in this town al- 
ways favor long names for intellectual enterprises. 
My dear child, the idea is superb!” 

“Mr. Telford,” said Kate, speaking with the quiet 
intensity of a woman who is not to be trifled with, 
“I wish you would tell me if you are joking or speak- 
ing the truth. Remember this is a serious matter 
to me, for if I can get the papers to take up this 
absurd scheme I can induce them to print anything 
about anybody. Why, the thing is so preposter- 
ously silly that I should be ashamed to offer it to a 
newspaper.” 

“Certainly it is a preposterous scheme,” replied 
Telford. “That’s why I think so highly of it. All 
the cultured classes will be sure to fall for it. Can’t 
you see that every college professor and everybody 
else who wants to get into print will indorse this 
15 211 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


worthless project? OflFer it to your Rowenna woman, 
and you’ll see that she’ll jump at it! Then come to 
me, and I’ll show you how to work it to the best ad- 
vantage. Go to her now, and I’ll walk along with 
you.” 


CHAPTER XX 


S HE found Mrs. Rowenna dressing to go out. 

A maid of darkest imaginable hue admitted her 
to the disorderly little parlor hung with pink cre- 
tonne and furnished with sofas and easy -chairs 
covered with soiled damask. A few colored re- 
productions of well-known paintings adorned the 
walls, and the place of honor over the mantelpiece 
was filled with a huge representation of a disheveled 
woman with rolling eyes and flowing hair clinging 
to a cross. Under this picture a row of signed 
theatrical photographs stretched across the entire 
length of the mantelpiece. Among these Kate recog- 
nized several of Mrs. Rowenna herself in different 
stage costumes, including one very pretty one in 
tights. There were also many portraits of an 
^‘actory ’’-looking man — no other word describes him 
— labeled “Walter Floodmere.” 

“Miss Rowenna say fo’ you to rest hyar a spell, 
an’ she’ll be in d’rectly,” said the maid, with a friend- 
ly show of teeth; and the visitor seated herself in a 
bulging easy-chair while the colored girl resumed 
her duties as tiring-woman. 

“You dear sweet thing!” cried the actress, burst- 
ing into the room a moment later in handsome walk- 
ing-costume. “I’ve wondered and wondered why 
you never came to see me. A dozen times I’ve 
been on the point of writing to ask you to come and 

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have supper after the theater, and then I thought 
perhaps you didn’t care about knowing professional 
people. But I see I misjudged you. Now do sit 
down and tell me all the news! How are you, dear? 
And how is dear Mrs. Grimmond?” 

Kate colored slightly as she realized that she would 
have scorned to call on Mrs. Rowenna had she not 
wanted something of her, and because of this con- 
sciousness she found it hard to state her errand. 
She began a little awkwardly to explain the trouble 
that had overtaken her, and, although Mrs. Rowenna 
hastened to express her sympathy, a slight change 
in her manner was quite apparent to her visitor, 
who continued with deepening color: “I wondered, 
Mrs. Rowenna, if you couldn’t find some work for 
me in keeping you before the public? I can write 
pretty well, and I know a lot of people on the dif- 
ferent papers.” 

The actress regarded her thoughtfully for a mo- 
ment and then made answer. ‘‘If you could really 
get the papers to print something favorable about 
me I wouldn’t mind paying for it, but so many 
reporters have tried it and failed that I’m discour- 
aged. Every bit of free advertising I ever had I 
got myself. Now I’ve been wondering lately if I 
couldn’t fake up something on the line of a high- 
brow show that would bring a lot of college profes- 
sors and parsons down from the high perch with a 
bundle of indorsements. You see, my divorce got 
me in wrong with all that push, and it’s up to me 
now to do something to take the curse off. Now if 
Walter and me was to come out in favor of some- 
thing high-browed it would put us before the public 
in a new groove so they’d forget all about the divorce 
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business, and then maybe the papers would stop 
making funny cracks every time my name came up. 
Do you think you could get something printed 
about us in that line of work.?*” 

Ignorant writers are apt to talk about the value 
of a sense of humor, but the truth is that a keen 
sense of the ridiculous is a luxury that only the 
rich can enjoy with safety. To any one in Kate’s 
position the possession of this extra sense is often 
a serious bar to success. It was with no small 
difficulty that she kept her face straight long enough 
to assure the actress that that was precisely the 
idea that she herself had had in mind, adding: 
‘‘What do vou think of taking up this Stadium 
idea.?” 

“The Stadium.?” said Roberta, thoughtfully. 
“That’s a theater where the ancient Greek parties 
used to give shows, ain’t it.? Well, the name sounds 
sort of good to me.” 

“But I’ve got a better name!” exclaimed Kate, 
brightly. “Let’s call it a Staditorium!” 

“That’s certainly better,” said the actress; and it 
was then agreed that Kate should try her hand at 
press work and receive payment if she accomplished 
anything. Greatly elated, she proceeded to call on 
Mr. Marshall at the office of the Sunday Planet. 

Telford had advised her to make plain from the 
very first her own position. “Not every woman,” 
he said, “sees the advantage of being on the level 
in this business. But if you explain frankly that 
you’re this woman’s press-agent it disarms the sus- 
picion that sits for ever at an editor’s elbow. Then, 
if he likes you, he won’t object to doing you a good 
turn.” 


215 


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Marshall received Kate with genuine cordiality. 
Both he and his wife had liked her from the start 
and their indignation had been aroused by her 
unjust dismissal. Consequently he was in a mood 
to help her in any way that did not jeopardize the 
dignity and influence of his paper. He listened 
closely as his visitor unfolded the plan for the 
Staditorium, but his nods of approval changed to a 
negative shake of the head when she coupled Roberta 
Rowenna with the scheme. 

‘‘The Staditorium is all right/’ he said, “but 
I’m afraid we can’t stand for your friend Roberta 
as the originator of it.” 

“But,” said Kate, in dismay, “I’m trying to bring 
it before the public in her interest and for her money. 
It wouldn’t be right to credit somebody else with it.” 

“Is the name hers, too?” asked Marshall. 

“No; I invented that myself — or rather a friend 
of mine did.” 

For fully a minute Marshall sat gravely pondering. 
“How would this do?” he said at last. “Write me 
a column indorsing the proposition to build a 
Stadium in New York modeled on ancient lines. 
Don’t mention any names, but say that the scheme 
is indorsed by many persons of eminence. Then 
this Roberta woman can write to the paper saying 
that the Staditorium, a conception of her own brain, 
is the very thing the city needs, and she can back 
this up with letters from different wise guys testi- 
fying that they have every confidence in it.” 

“But suppose the papers fail to recognize the 
superiority of the Staditorium over the Stadium?” 
said Kate, inquiringly. 

“The longer name will kill the shorter,” replied 
216 


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Marshall, confidently. ‘'With that name in your 
hand and the high purpose of booming Roberta 
Rowenna as an inspiration, you can go forth like 
a Crusader of old to conquer or die.^’ 

Kate went home and wrote a glowing description 
of the proposed Stadium, asserting that it was the 
one thing needed in the town to develop the native 
drama. Then she called on two or three of the 
nonentities whose ambition it is to be known as 
“prominent citizens” — the last ditch of meretricious 
fame — and extracted from them signed letters fer- 
vently indorsing the plan. Marshall read the article 
and accepted it, and Kate repaired to Roberta’s 
flat to report progress. 

She found that eminent artist in a very bad tem- 
per, the result of a quarrel with Floodmere. All 
her enthusiasm for the Stadium had evaporated, and 
she listened with petulant indifference while Kate 
told her what she intended to do. She made no 
comment until she was told that her name was not 
to appear in the Planet article; then she burst out: 
“Fd like to know why not, pray!” 

Kate hesitated a moment and then replied gently: 
“Mr. Marshall thought it would be better to begin 
without mentioning any name at all and then 
fasten your name to it the next day by means of 
letters in all the papers.” 

“That’s not the reason, and you know it!” screamed 
Roberta. “Gawd knows he printed my name often 
enough in his nasty old paper at the time of my 
trouble, when I was a heartbroken woman and 
every paragraph about me was like a hot iron laid 
on my shrinking flesh. Now he wants to rob me of 
the credit for a scheme as dear to me as my very 
217 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


heart’s blood, and you have the nerve to come here 
and tell me that it’s a good thing to have my name 
left ofF entirely. I little thought, Miss Craven, when 
you pretended to be my friend and sat at my table, 
that I was nursing a viper in disguise.” 

‘‘I never sat at your table in my life!” exclaimed 
Kate, amazed at the hysterical outburst. 

‘‘Well, if you didn’t, that old Lady Clara did, and 
that’s the same thing!” retorted Roberta, who had 
now worked herself into a state of angry tears. But 
before Kate could answer, a latch-key clicked in the 
door, and a tall, clean-shaven man entered the room. 

“Walter, this is Miss Craven,” said Roberta, 
peevishly. “I was wondering what had become of 
my night-key, and now I remember you took it 
when you went back last night to get my umbrella 
and forgot to return it. Let me have it now, please.” 

The new-comer went through the farce of return- 
ing his own key and meanwhile eyed the visitor 
with a look of undisguised admiration. Kate noticed 
that he had regular, mobile features and dark, rolling 
eyes. A certain gentle charm in his manner appealed 
to her at once, and his voice had a rich, exquisitely 
modulated quality that gave her a distinct thrill. 

Roberta now dried her tears and explained that 
Miss Craven was the lady who had offered to put 
the scheme of the Staditorium before the public 
but had “made a botch of the whole business.” 

“I can scarcely believe that,” replied the actor, 
in a finely sympathetic tone that was in marked 
contrast to Roberta’s raucous, undisciplined voice. 
“Miss Craven strikes me as a lady who could man- 
age such a business with the greatest tact and skill. 
But,” he added, placing his hand tenderly on 
2i8 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Roberta’s arm, ‘‘you are all wrought up now and 
in no condition to discuss business matters. Miss 
Craven will excuse you now, I am quite sure, and 
take the matter up with you again later in the 
week.” 

Kate was only too glad of an excuse to retire, 
and Mr. Floodmere gallantly escorted her to the 
elevator. As Mrs. Rowenna’s door closed behind 
them his whole manner took on a new shade of 
tender solicitude as he said; ‘‘I know you will be 
generous enough to overlook anything that poor 
Roberta may have said in her hasty, impulsive way. 
She has been under a terrible strain of late and hardly 
knows what she is saying. You must talk over this 
matter of the Staditorium with me, for I have every 
confidence in your ability. Can you meet me at the 
Plaza at five this afternoon.? I will bring Mrs. 
Rowenna, and we can talk it all over calmly over a 
cup of tea.” 

Kate eagerly agreed to the rendezvous. The pros- 
pect of settling a dispute that threatened to upset 
her well-laid plans, and also take tea in a fashionable 
place with an actor of renown if not distinction, was 
an alluring one, and she hurried home in a state of 
joyful anticipation. 

Floodmere was waiting in the lobby for her, and 
she knew by the way his eyes rested on her that 
she found favor in his sight. Of course she looked 
upon him as irrevocably sealed to Mrs. Rowenna, 
for had not that actress declared in her own hearing 
that theirs was “3. marriage in the sight of God as 
much as if a priest had mumbled his blessing over 
it”? But it was pleasant, nevertheless, to realize 
that even a man as much in love as she firmly be- 
219 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


lieved Floodmere to be was not altogether insensible 
to her charms. 

‘‘At last!’’ cried the actor, as he sprang forward 
and seized Kate by the hand. “I was so afraid 
you would not come at all.” 

“Of course I came,” said Kate, naively. “I’m 
too anxious about this job to let any chance slip by. 
Where’s Mrs. Rowenna?” 

“Roberta asked me to tell you that she had a 
sick headache and hoped that you would be so 
good as to excuse her. Shall we go in and find a 
table?” 

Floodmere preceded her as they marched through 
the crowded tea-room, thus giving her an opportu- 
nity to note the perfect cut of his coat, the crease of 
his gray trousers, and the gloss of the silk hat he 
carried in his hand. It flattered her to feel that he 
had considered it worth his while to make such 
an elaborate toilet in her honor; nor was she blind 
to the fact that their progress across the room 
awakened a distinct buzz of interested comment. A 
dozen feminine tongues whispered his name as they 
passed, and once she heard a masculine voice in- 
quire, “Who’s the girl with him?” and the reply, 
“Oh, some actress, I suppose. She’s pretty, though.” 

It was all quite exciting, and there was a pretty 
color in Kate’s dimpled cheeks when they seated 
themselves at a table that seemed to her rather con- 
spicuously placed for a quiet chat on a mere matter 
of business. Floodmere ordered tea and cake and 
then fixed his large, rolling, melancholy eyes on his 
companion and said, “Now, tell me all about your 
scheme.” 

Kate Craven was a good talker, especially when, 
220 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


as in the present case, she was thoroughly interested 
in her theme. She waxed enthusiastic as she ex- 
pounded her plan for a Staditorium; and Floodmere, 
always susceptible to feminine influence, listened 
attentively and more than once signified his hearty 
approval. His devotion to his art had never inter- 
fered with his scent for publicity, and he saw at a 
glance the value of the project as a means of placing 
his name and Mrs. Rowenna’s conspicuously before 
the public. Furthermore, he was quick to see that 
the atmosphere of scandal which enveloped both 
their names might perhaps be dissipated could they 
succeed in claiming popular attention as the cham- 
pions of a ‘‘high-brow’^ scheme of such stupendous 
magnitude. 

“What would be your idea as to the class of plays 
to be given?’* he inquired; and Kate answered that 
the classical drama was the only thing possible. 

“For my own part,” she continued, gravely, 
though the temptation to laugh was almost irre- 
sistible, “I can think of nothing better than some 
Greek drama like ‘CEdipus Rex,’ for example.” 

Floodmere nodded his approval as a vision of him- 
self in snow-white draperies, revealing his bare legs 
— of which he was inordinately vain — flashed across 
his mind. 

“Little one,” said the actor, in tones almost as 
deep and sentimental as those that he usually em- 
ployed in heavy emotional scenes at a Saturday 
matinee, “I believe you are a real genius. The 
sooner you spring the Staditorium on the public 
the better I shall be pleased.” 

Very much emboldened by these words of frank 
praise, Kate went on to the difficult and delicate 
221 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


task of explaining why it would be necessary to 
keep Mrs. Rowenna’s name out of the initial story. 
She had done a little quiet thinking since her talk 
with the actress earlier in the day, and now she 
thought she could see a way out of her difficulty. 

‘‘Tm glad you like my idea,’’ she said, ‘‘because 
I’ve got my first announcement written, and the 
Planet will print it next Sunday. Mrs. Rowenna 
did not fancy the form in which it was written, and 
that was what we were discussing when you came 
in this morning. It was at the advice of the Sunday 
editor of the Planet that I left her name and yours 
out entirely. He’s a particular friend of mine and 
disposed to help me all he can. Besides that, he’s 
a man of enormous experience in all kinds of news- 
paper work, and I’m ready to act on any suggestion 
he has to make. He says that the wisest course 
will be to first print a general article about a Stadium 
being the one thing needed for the development of 
dramatic art in New York. The next day you must 
appear in all the newspapers with a description of 
your Staditorium, claiming that you have been work- 
ing on it for years and that it contains all the good 
features of the Stadium and a good many more 
besides.” 

Floodmere was not a man of intellectual gifts, 
but he was cunning in knowledge of theatricals, 
and Kate’s argument made a deep impression on him. 
It had always been his ambition to figure in the 
public eye as an exponent of the intellectual drama; 
not that he had any intellectual tastes himself, but 
because it was so easy, and Kate’s scheme seemed 
to him ridiculously easy. What she had to offer 
was a ready-made intellectual pose guaranteed to 
222 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


fit, which he could slip on overnight and perhaps 
wear for an indefinite number of years. To put on 
this pose required neither thought nor hard study — 
both of which he detested. He knew enough of the 
town to realize that under the broad mantle of en- 
thusiasm which the leaders of thought would cast 
over the Staditorium there would be room and to 
spare for him and Rowenna. Leaning across the 
table, he murmured: 

“Tiny one, why is it that the cruel gods kept us 
apart all these long, weary years?’’ 

Unaccustomed as she was to the tricks of the 
“ actor- voice,” Kate thrilled at Floodmere’s words. 
Nor was she indifferent to the look, suggestive of 
unutterable things, that accompanied them. What 
he would have called “giving her the eye” had, 
blended with the gently modulated notes of his 
voice, cast a magic spell about her senses. In a 
flash there came to her a comprehension of at least 
one reason why Roberta Rowenna had left home 
and husband to follow this compelling voice. In 
another flash she found herself wondering if such a 
shallow woman were really capable of understanding 
him. What a silly, insincere creature she was, after 
all! 

Floodmere, never unaware of his own powers of 
attraction, was quick to note the effect of his words 
and almost as quick to follow them up. The game 
of flirtation — some would call it by an uglier name — 
was one in which he had the skill bred of long experi- 
ence, unhampered by scruple. With a sigh almost 
as thrilling as his words, he went on: 

“If I had known you three years ago it might 
have made a great difference in both our lives. But, 
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alas! what’s done can’t be undone — at least not in 
a single moment. Perhaps,” he murmured, half to 
himself, his eyes roving beyond hers with what she 
thought was a far-away look, ‘‘perhaps I have been 
too jealous of the fair fame of a woman to think of 
my own interests or of what was due to my art. 
Ah, well, what does it signify, after all? We players 
strut our brief course across the stage, win the pass- 
ing tribute of a smile or a tear, and then — oblivion. 
Little does a heedless public reck of the heart that 
beats behind the mask, of the dreams and hopes of 
him who must often play the clown to tickle the 
ears of the groundlings. How many do you suppose 
of yonder cackling, tea-drinking swarm ever give 
thought to the soul that lies behind the actor’s 
art? Bah! the thought sickens me. Let us away 
from this scene of pitiful frivolity.” 

I firmly believe that the most destructive engine 
of modern times, so far as the feminine heart is 
concerned, is that well-modulated vocal organ, the 
exclusive possession of actors and clergymen, the 
“actor- voice.” It was by means of this that Flood- 
mere had won for himself a far better place in his 
profession than he really deserved. Backed by his 
dark, rolling eyes and an intense earnestness of 
manner, the same voice that was so effectual on the 
stage could be made to accomplish wonders with 
young and impressionable women whose good fortune 
it was to meet him face to face. 

Kate Craven was not in any sense an impression- 
able girl. She had never been really in love with 
Penfield, but, as not one of the men whom she had 
met in New York had seriously enchained her fancy, 
she had come to believe that her feeling for him must 
224 


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be the divine passion of which poets sang and of 
which she had been reading all her life. Now she 
realized that Floodmere’s finely trained voice was 
sounding depths in her soul that neither Penfield’s 
blulF geniality nor Telford’s gentle courtesy and un- 
selfish kindness had ever reached. She realized, too, 
that she had been secretly pleased by the knowledge 
that, even when talking about his soul, the actor 
had fixed his eyes on the graceful outlines of her 
figure with the same hungry, devouring look that 
she had resented in the case of other men. She re- 
joiced in his admiration, so well had the actor-voice 
accomplished its work. His contempt for the 
‘‘cackling, tea-drinking swarm” seemed to her mag- 
nificent. How many actors, she asked herself, 
would have the nobility to despise all those idle, 
adoring women? As she followed him out of the 
tea-room a sudden remembrance of Mrs. Rowenna 
fell upon her gay spirits like a gray cloud. With his 
high sense of honor Floodmere would, of course, feel 
bound to make her his wife as soon as the knot 
could be legally tied. But suppose the “impossible” 
husband were to persist in his refusal to apply for 
a divorce? Surely in that event no man, no matter 
how noble, could be expected to make a perpetual 
sacrifice of himself, and perhaps of some other 
woman! Without realizing what it signified, Kate 
Craven had reached a very dangerous point in the 
rapid progress of her infatuation — the point at which 
she felt sorry for the man who had cast his spell 
over her. 

It was after six o’clock when Floodmere left his 
companion at her door, saying, as he clasped her 
hand and held it in a warm embrace: “You have 
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done me a world of good to-day with your beautiful 
talk and your high ideals. I shall call on Mrs. 
Rowenna as soon as possible and make her see this 
matter of the Staditorium as we see it.’’ 

The next day it was arranged between them that 
Kate should undertake the creation of the Stadi- 
torium, it being fully understood that she was not 
expected to build it, but merely to cause its erection 
in the popular mind, which, as Telford assured her, 
was the only site possible. She was to receive fifty 
dollars a week for her services, and if the Staditorium 
were to become a reality she was to have steady 
employment as its press-agent. 


CHAPTER XXI 


K ate entered upon her new duties in a curious 
state of mind. For the moment Penfield and 
his treachery were forgotten, and Telford and Flood- 
mere divided her interest, the one dominating her 
mind and the other her emotions. It was Telford 
whom she consulted at every step in the path of 
her new endeavor; but the eyes that filled her mental 
vision and the voice that sounded ceaselessly in 
her ears were Floodmere’s. Both men called on her 
almost daily. Telford usually appeared early in the 
afternoon and the actor late in the morning; the 
one to ask her how her scheme was working and 
help her solve its various knotty problems, the other 
to suggest new methods of publicity and assure her 
that he would never forget the invaluable services 
that she was rendering him. To neither of the two 
men did she mention the visits of the other, and, 
while fully appreciating the value of the rewrite- 
man’s unselfish interest and wise counsel, it was to 
the visits of Floodmere that she looked forward 
with the keenest anticipation; his rolling eyes and 
splendid actor- voice that lived in her imagination. 

Meanwhile the Staditorium was making tremen- 
dous headway. The original description of the 
Stadium in the Sunday edition of the Planet was 
followed by a letter from Mrs. Rowenna outlining 
the scheme for a Staditorium which she affirmed was 
i6 227 


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her “life-dream,” and on which she declared that 
actual work would soon begin. Owing to its skilful 
wording Mrs. Rowenna’s letter, written by Kate, 
received wide publicity and was quickly followed 
by the indorsements of the learned and intellectual 
classes. The first of these was in the form of an 
interview, obtained by Kate, at the advice of Tel- 
ford, with the occupant of the Chair of Dramatic 
Literature in a Western university in which he de- 
clared that the establishment of the Staditorium 
would unquestionably rescue the native drama from 
the grasp of commercialism. The learned professor 
added that in his opinion it would be wise to devote 
it exclusively to the production of plays by native 
dramatists, having in mind certain very promising 
pupils, not to mention a few unacted dramas of his 
own. 

This interview brought a prompt answer from 
another eminent scholar, who had not been inside 
a playhouse in twenty years, favoring the classic 
and Shakespearian dramas as best suited to the 
work of raising the American stage to the highest 
possible dignity. In this lofty view he was supported 
by an elderly histrion, long unemployed, who wrote 
from Staten Island to make known his delight at 
the prospect of a revival of the works of the Immortal 
Bard, and to offer his services for the roles of Horatio 
or Laertes. No other playwright, he declared, could 
drag him from his retirement. 

By this time the Staditorium had served the 
purpose for which it was intended, for it had opened 
the columns of the press to the numerous company 
that desired to see themselves in print and from 
whom a stream of communications and interviews 
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now gushed forth. A leading settlement worker 
expressed the greatest enthusiasm for the plan, even 
going so far as to say that she was prepared to assist 
by recommending it to all the people in her neigh- 
borhood as a means of self-culture. The Rev. Henry 
Westmoreton had his attention drawn to the enter- 
prise and promptly preached a sermon in favor of 
it which Kate contrived to have fully reported, thus 
securing a most valuable indorsement. 

Kate Craven had not been gone from the Mega- 
phone a week before Penfield began to realize how 
much he had come to depend on her. More than 
ever he regretted that he had neglected to make 
friends for himself in the office. Nothing could have 
been more polite than the attitude which Macy and 
Vanderlip maintained toward him, and yet he knew 
they stood ready to ‘‘put the knife into him,’’ as 
Park Row would have phrased it. And among all 
the staff there was not a single man or woman on 
whom he could rely for personal loyalty save poor 
Lady Clara, and she was but a feeble reed to lean 
on. Besides which he knew that she must despise 
him for his treatment of Kate. Penfield had always 
denied the value of friendship in a successful career. 
Now he suddenly found himself stranded on an icy 
peak without a solitary friend within call. He real- 
ized with feelings of intense bitterness that he might 
perish there from cold or hunger for all the Mega- 
phone staff cared. He wished now that during the 
period of his rapid climb up the steps of the throne 
he had contrived to attach to himself a few loyal 
souls. But, like most selfish, ambitious men, his 
gaze had always been so firmly fixed on those above 
him that he had neglected to pay any attention 
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to those less successful than himself, and in many 
instances he had shown an utter disregard of their 
feelings. All of which goes to show that Penfield 
was profoundly ignorant of the principles that gov- 
ern life. 

But Penfield’s self-confidence was supreme. He 
had climbed high, and he could climb still higher. 
That he possessed in the highest degree the royal 
favor he did not for a moment doubt, and in this 
knowledge he found speedy consolation. Neither 
Vanderlip nor Macy could dislodge him now. In 
his dreams he saw them relegated to obscurity and 
he himself installed as sole representative of his 
master’s will, perhaps the inheritor of the throne. 

But this self-sufficient young man did not stop 
to consider the difference between constitutional and 
autocratic rule, between a prime minister chosen to 
represent the will of the people, and the chance 
favorite of a monarch’s unstable fancy. So he ad- 
dressed himself to his work, secure in his belief in 
his own powers and the continued approval of his 
master, while the office staff, despising him for his 
selfishness and his cowardly desertion of the only 
friend he had, ranged themselves against him as a 
solid mass and asked one another how long he would 
last. 

The fact that he was making headway in what he 
called the “social swim” did much to dissipate the 
feelings of doubt and uncertainty that sometimes 
forced themselves upon his consciousness. The 
truth was that he had been taken up by some of the 
semi-public women of society who saw in him a gold- 
en opportunity for the exploitation of themselves 
and the various pet schemes or “movements” that 
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claimed their attention. He had also gained a rather 
hazardous foothold as one of the band of ‘‘interest- 
ing men — men who do something’’ that cluster 
about the approaches to society and impede the 
usual traffic. Miss Smithers frequently asked him 
to dinner and seldom failed to put him next to some 
woman who wanted something, which was her idea 
of “bringing interesting people together.” Mrs. 
Chilton-Smythe also bade him to some of the less 
distinguished of her revels, and never missed an op- 
portunity to tell him about herself and the Woman’s 
Betterment Society and to offer him her latest 
photograph. Other women, shrewdly noticing the 
manner in which this gifted young journalist re- 
turned thanks after meat — and sometimes even be- 
fore it — in the columns of the Sunday Megaphone, 
hastened to “take him up,” as they put it, the result 
being that he soon found himself on half a dozen 
rather conspicuous visiting- lists and in receipt of 
a cordial invitation from Mrs. Chilton-Smythe to 
“drop in any day at lunch-time.” 

Penfield plumed himself on his success in “getting 
into society,” and almost unconsciously began to 
imitate the mannerisms of the idle young men of 
fortune or quasi-fortune whom he met in the draw- 
ing-rooms that he frequented. This fact was quickly 
noted and discussed in the great whispering-gallery 
of Park Row. The naivete with which he repaid 
the hospitality of his new friends by printing their 
portraits and exploiting their pet schemes in the 
columns under his control, just as he had exchanged 
puffs for the favor of liverymen and saloon-keepers 
in Gray town days, was also noted with grim satis- 
faction by Vanderlip and Macy, who well knew that 
231 


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the outer reaches of society form a dangerous quick- 
sand for the inexperienced ones who have something 
to give in return for dinners and opera tickets and the 
luncheons to which they may ‘‘drop in any day.” 

The society reporters of other papers, than whom 
no one is quicker to bow before a new god, also took 
cognizance of his activities in the social groove and 
sought to win his favor by printing his name as 
often as possible in the groups designated as “among 
those present.” There is no telling when one may 
be out of a job and in sore need of a possible friend 
at court. And of the many in Park Row who 
watched Ned Penfield’s progress, only Vanderlip and 
Macy knew absolutely that he was walking on a 
very thin crust beneath which lay the consuming 
fires of envy, hatred, and malice. 

Another was watching his course from afar off, 
but with still keener interest than the two editors, 
and that was Barshfield, still flitting about Europe, 
but keeping a sharp eye on all that went on in his 
New York office. His mind, always open to the 
voice of suspicion, had been disturbed by the 
thought of the secret intimacy between Penfield 
and Miss Craven, which he regarded as almost 
treasonable conspiracy; and now, reading the Sunday 
supplement with a new and clearer vision, he noted 
the complete absence of the feminine quality that 
had once attracted and puzzled him. In order to 
put his suspicions to further proof he cabled to 
Penfield bidding him print more matter suited to 
the tastes of women. 

When Penfield received this despatch he involun- 
tarily thought of Kate Craven. Never before in all 
his career had he needed her as he did now. Straight- 
232 


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way he began to devise schemes of reconciliation. 
He would pay her out of his own pocket, if he could 
not persuade Barshfield to take her back, for he 
had reached a point in his career when she was a 
necessity to his further advancement. Since the 
morning when he called her up on the telephone and 
addressed her in terms that he now regretted, but 
which still rankled in her heart, he had not spoken 
to her. He could only guess what her feelings were 
toward him. But, after all, she had been vexed 
with him now and then during the long period of 
their intimacy, and he had always contrived to 
appease her. What had been done more than once 
could be done again, and he determined to write 
or perhaps call on her with a view to renewing the 
old relations. 

Like all men who pride themselves on their deep 
and intimate knowledge of women — and there are 
not many of us who do not cherish this illusion — 
Penfield regarded them as the weaker sex intellec- 
tually as well as physically. That they should 
crave any stronger meat than was to be found on 
Lady Clara’s page never entered his mind. There- 
fore when he received Barshfield’s cable he sum- 
moned that experienced purveyor of what is not 
inaptly termed ‘‘woman’s stuff,” and asked for a 
few suggestions for special articles. Eager to oblige 
the man whom she regarded not only as her bene- 
factor, but also as the most powerful figure on the 
staff of the Megaphone^ Lady Clara hastened to 
ransack her memory and quickly exhumed from 
that mausoleum of worn-out topics what she called, 
through sheer ignorance rather than mendacity, “a 
few live ideas.” The most honored of these was the 

233 


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list of American women who have married into the 
British nobility, held in high esteem because of its 
utter lack of interest and the enormous number of 
times that it has been printed. She also suggested 
a series of articles to be called “Society’s Self-sup- 
porting Sisterhood” — Lady Clara’s long suit was 
alliterative captions — to consist of highly imagina- 
tive accounts of the manner in which certain women, 
for the most part unknown in the social world, 
gained their bread by means of such lucrative enter- 
prises as raising violets or squab or frogs for the 
market, conducting tea-rooms, and teaching eti- 
quette by correspondence. 

Penfield hastened to carry out these novel and 
valuable suggestions and also added a bill of fare 
for every day in the week, prepared by Miss Min- 
turn, who lived in a boarding-house and had never 
kept house or cooked a meal in her life. But despite 
these well-meant efforts to enchain the simple fancy 
of the gentler sex the circulation of the Sunday 
Megaphone steadily declined; of which fact Barsh- 
field was duly apprised by the circulation manager, 
one of the three men whom Penfield had ejected 
from the office in which he now reigned alone. Then 
came a sharp cable from abroad ordering the sub- 
stitution of “something original and up to date” 
for the various features that Lady Clara had evolved 
from her ripened memory. 

This was the severest blow that Penfield had re- 
ceived since he first entered Barshfield’s employ, 
and he resolved to put what he called his “pride” 
in his pocket and summon Kate Craven to his 
aid. Powerless to reinstate her on the paper from 
which she had been discharged by royal mandate, 
234 


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he wrote and appealed to her on the ground of their 
old friendship, expressing contrition for his rudeness, 
and assuring her that he had used all his influence 
with his employer to save her. He had reached, he 
said, the critical moment in his career. Between 
him and perhaps the greatest triumph ever achieved 
in Park Row in so short a time there lay but one 
obstacle. With her assistance he could surmount 
it. This accomplished, he would see to it that she 
was restored to her former place. What he had 
suffered from remorse God alone knew. The same 
Power that had been a silent witness of his heart- 
breaking grief could also testify to the honesty of 
his present intentions. 

It happened that this letter reached Kate at a 
critical moment in her own fortunes. She had been 
singularly successful with all the Sunday papers 
except the Megaphone^ for her pride had prevented 
her from asking even the smallest favor from the 
man whom she had once regarded as her one devoted 
friend. Now, as she read his pitiful appeal for 
help, she asked herself if it would be possible to 
renew the old relations. Like every man who ever 
did an irreparable injury to a friend, Penfield was 
quite willing to let bygones be bygones, and, as the 
emotional feminine heart is seldom wholly immune 
from this ingenuous appeal, Kate’s feelings softened 
perceptibly as she read. Then her common sense 
came to the rescue, and she laid the letter aside, 
resolved to ignore it altogether. 

She could not, however, put it altogether out of 
her head, and that very day Mrs. Rowenna, who, 
like every inferior player, never really believed that 
she was receiving half as much newspaper notoriety 
235 


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as she deserved, remarked fretfully that she hadn’t 
seen anything about the Staditorium in the Sun- 
day Megaphone. 

Telford called the next day, and Kate showed him 
Penfield’s letter. He read it through studiously and 
without comment, but twice a smile of amusement 
flashed across his face. 

‘‘What are you going to do about it?” he asked, 
as he handed it back to her. 

“I’m very much in doubt,” she made answer. 
“That’s why I’m so glad you came. I wanted to 
consult you.” 

“Surely you are not thinking of going back to 
that fellow again after the infamous way in which 
he has treated you! Can’t you see that he never 
would have written to you if he hadn’t wanted to 
use you? He’s in a hole and thinks you can pull 
him out. A scalded dog knows enough to keep away 
from hot water, and if you’re going to succeed in 
this cold town, you must have at least as much in- 
telligence as a poodle!” 

“But there’s another phase of the question, and 
a very important one, too, that I haven’t told you 
about,” replied the other, and thereupon she ex- 
plained the quandary in which she found herself, 
and made it plain to him how necessary it was for 
her to have access to the columns of all the papers, 
especially the Megaphone, which was read by Mrs. 
Rowenna and every one of her friends. 

Telford remained for a few moments in quiet 
thought, his eyes fixed on his companion as if try- 
ing to read her emotions. Then he said: 

“Which of the two do you need — Penfield or the 
Megaphone?*' 


236 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“I never want to see Penfield again/’ rejoined 
Kate, with a bitterness in her voice that left no 
doubt as to her real feelings at the moment. Tel- 
ford was relieved to hear her speak in this way, 
although he could not quite drive from his mind the 
knowledge, acquired long since by bitter experience, 
that in a woman’s heart love and hate occupy 
adjoining rooms, with a connecting door between. 
“But it is very important for me to gain access to 
the Sunday Megaphoney and you know he controls 
that absolutely. Oh, dear! I only wish I were a 
man. This hateful question of sex turns up in even 
the coldest matters of business.” 

“What you call the hateful question of sex is 
the very essence of all human happiness,” said Tel- 
ford, half to himself. “If you intend to succeed 
without it you must fight with the same weapons 
that men use. If you were a man you would get 
even with this fellow for what he has done to you.” 

“But,” said Kate, “women are not supposed to 
get even with men who treat them badly. In all 
the great novels I’ve read the heroines who are 
smitten on one cheek meekly turn the other. That’s 
why they are so popular — especially with you men.” 

“All the great novels were written during or 
prior to the Victorian era,” replied Telford. “They 
undoubtedly reflected the spirit of their day, but 
the position of women has altered tremendously 
since then. Good God 1 for the last two years you’ve 
been filling your woman’s page with your ‘New 
Woman,’ as you call her, telling us how independent 
she is, and how she runs the farm and the iron- 
foundry and raises violets and acts as secretary 
and adviser to the money kings, and yet you don’t 

237 


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seem to have discovered that her position has 
changed since Thackeray created Amelia Sedley. 
You’re in competition with men now in a field that 
was once theirs exclusively. Don’t let one of them 
get the better of you just because you want to live 
up to the standard of a mid-Victorian heroine.” 

When Telford took his leave half an hour later, 
Kate said to him as she gave his hand a warm 
pressure: ‘‘You’ve made everything clear to me. 
What’s more, I’m going to put aside my feelings 
and do everything that you say.” 

She waited a few days before replying to Pen- 
field’s letter, for she well knew the value of keeping 
a man “on the anxious seat,” as Lady Clara phrased 
it. And while he was worrying himself with doubt 
and uncertainty Kate was deliberately planning a 
campaign that should accomplish everything she 
wished for. Little did he dream of the change that 
had taken place in the girl whom he had once 
molded so easily to his will, and to whose unselfish, 
unswerving loyalty his success was so largely due. 
Nothing shocks a self-centered man more than the 
sudden realization that the woman who has been 
his faithful tool has in some way acquired a clear 
vision of him and begun to think for herself. 

And just as Kate had been awakened to a compre- 
hension of things through a succession of thunder- 
claps, so did the other arrive at knowledge through 
a series of shocks. He received the first of these 
when, in response to a coldly brief note, he called 
at Lady Clara’s flat and attempted to take his for- 
mer friend in his arms. He received the second 
when that same former friend indicated the condi- 
tions under which she was willing to save him. The 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


first of these was a fixed salary of fifty dollars a 
week, which wrung from him a groan of anguish, 
as he knew that he would have to pay it out of his 
own pocket. The next was that the arrangement 
between them should remain a secret. In return 
for these favors Kate was to furnish special articles 
and suggest others. 

“What’s got into that woman?” said Penfield to 
himself, morosely, as he went on his way. “She’s as 
hard as nails, and she seems to know that I need her. 
That’s the way with women! No matter what you 
do for them, they forget about it when it comes to 
driving a bargain!” And as he rode down-town he 
formulated in his mind a list of the things he had 
done for Kate without even thinking of all she had 
done for him, and was thus able to reach his office 
in the mood of an early Christian martyr. 


CHAPTER XXII 


K ATE’S first contribution to the Sunday Mega- 
phone was a description of the home life of 
Roberta Rowenna, the beginning of a series to be 
called ‘‘Women Who Do Things.” It represented 
her as much courted by society but refusing all 
invitations in order that she might devote herself 
to her studies of the higher intellectual drama. She 
was quoted as saying that the ambition of her life 
was to build the Staditorium and dedicate it, by her 
services, to the glory and stability of dramatic art. 
In the photographs that illustrated this piece of 
fiction Mrs. Rowenna was shown reading a large 
book, with others heaped on the table beside her. 
On the same table was an hour-glass — an artful 
touch on the part of Kate, who had borrowed that 
classic recorder of time from a friendly shopkeeper, to 
whom it was returned directly after the departure of 
the photographer. The books went at the same time. 

The second story of the series related to Carolyn 
Smithers, and was artfully contrived to exasperate 
Mrs. Chilton-Smythe to the last point of endurance, 
for it contained a hint of impending changes in the 
leadership of the Woman’s Betterment Society. In 
this story Miss Smithers was proclaimed the un- 
questioned leader of the fashionable intellectual set; 
her drawing-room the place in which society, art, 
science, and literature met on common ground. 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Both stories were extremely well written, for Kate 
had long since learned her business; and Penfield, 
little dreaming that she was Mrs. Rowenna’s press- 
agent, and being himself ignorant of that actress’s 
unsavory record, had both of them put in type. 

The publication of the Rowenna myth awakened 
a great variety of emotions in the breasts and minds 
of the persons chiefly concerned in this story. For 
once the actress was thoroughly satisfied with the 
efforts of her press-agent. She wept with temper- 
amental joy as she read of her intellectual accom- 
plishments and gazed upon the reproduction of the 
photograph for which she had been carefully posed 
by Kate. Floodmere read it with a brow that 
darkened with disapproval when he found that it 
contained not a single reference to himself. Vander- 
lip and Macy read it together, their heads almost 
touching across the page proofs that had been stolen 
for them from the press-room by the faithful Tops. 
Then, as their eyes met, their faces were illumined 
by smiles not unlike those that they had worn on 
the morning they found the East Side story with 
the pictures of fat children. 

‘‘He’s digging his own grave pretty fast,” re- 
marked Vanderlip; “but who do you think wrote 
that story.? I have my suspicions.” 

“It was very much like that Craven girl,” replied 
Macy. “Do you think it possible he’s got her on 
his staff again after throwing her down the way 
he did?” 

“I don’t know,” said the other, thoughtfully; 
“those cold-blooded, selfish men have a great pull 
with women. But if it’s the Craven’s work, I 
rather incline to the belief that she’s giving him the 
241 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


double cross. I understand she’s doing press work 
for the Staditorium, as they call it, and that’s this 
Rowenna bird’s scheme. Certainly she must know 
that such a fake story as that will get Penfield in 
wrong with the boss.” 

To Lady Clara’s sloppy soul the story seemed, 
as she expressed it, “perfectly lovely.” She had 
worked so long on women’s pages that the line of 
demarcation between truth and mendacity had long 
since been wiped off her mental map. Penfield was 
also highly pleased and declared it to be “good 
woman’s stuff,” a term signifying something attuned 
to the mentality of a poodle. 

Meanwhile, under Kate’s skilful guidance the 
Staditorium was assuming stupendous proportions. 
Not that anybody wanted it or was ever likely to 
want it. Not that a site had been secured, or a 
brick laid, or any money raised for its building. 
Like the marble court-house in a new suburban real- 
estate enterprise, it was merely a thing of paper 
and ink, which is the stuff that modern dreams are 
made of. Its energetic press-agent pasted into a 
scrap-book all the interviews, letters, and special 
articles printed about it and was appalled at the 
results. It seemed to her that the sympathies of 
the entire thinking element in the town had been 
enlisted in behalf of a project so absurd that, but 
for Telford’s sage counsel, she would have been 
ashamed to offer it to any editor for serious con- 
sideration. 

Her mentor, calling on her one afternoon, found 
her with the scrap-book open on the table and pro- 
ceeded to examine it with his customary air of 
amusement. 


242 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“You have certainly done well/’ he remarked, 
“but I don’t see any interviews with the regular 
theatrical managers. You ought to get some of 
them to talk.” 

“But they surely would not speak favorably of 
a scheme, even a wholly imaginary one like this, 
that is in direct competition with their own houses.?” 

“Why not?” said Telford. “There is nothing 
that a manager likes better than to see somebody 
else invest money in a theater that is bound to fail. 
His visionary mind always sees the possibility of 
renting it himself at a cheap price. There’s another 
element that you might utilize, and that is the one 
that listens to lectures on the uplifting of the drama. 
There’s a feeble-minded ass named Herbert Penny- 
royal, who goes around lecturing on the need of a 
municipal theater, and I think you might get him 
to espouse the cause of the Staditorium, which is 
only a shade less idiotic than that of a theater 
managed by the city authorities, which would ena- 
ble any alderman to take his uncle off a broom and 
cast him for Hamlet. I need scarcely tell you that 
Mr. Pennyroyal has a large following among the 
owlish classes of this remarkable town who actually 
pay to hear his lectures and eagerly voice their ap- 
proval of his project.” 

Acting on these wise suggestions, Kate called on 
one of the chief theatrical producers of the town 
and asked him if he would express his opinion of the 
proposed Staditorium. 

Mr. Rosenthal, who had read of the Staditorium 
and already conceived the idea of leasing it for a 
moving-picture show, replied gravely that it was 
a move in the right direction and on that score 
17 243 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


deserved the hearty support of every one who had 
the interests of the American stage at heart. Speak- 
ing for himself, he hoped that it would soon become 
an accomplished fact and a powerful agent in the 
great work of uplifting public taste, in which he 
himself had long been engaged. His brother mana- 
gers, he surmised, would be found to entertain views 
similar to his own. 

Kate next sought out Mr. Pennyroyal and inquired 
with much seriousness if he had ever thought of 
putting his vast knowledge of the drama to practical 
use in theatrical management. Mr. Pennyroyal, a 
flabby young man with very long ears and an owlish 
cast of countenance, hastened to make answer that 
the dream of his life was to direct an artistic play- 
house. He listened with close attention to his 
visitor’s description of the Staditorium, and was 
greatly delighted to learn that the projectors had 
had an eye on him as one of the most promising of 
the “moderns” and a man capable of carrying out 
their ideas in a thoroughly artistic manner. 

Mr. Pennyroyal having swallowed the bait, Kate 
left him to digest it, and a fortnight later was ren- 
dered incredibly happy by the printed announce- 
ment that he was to lecture on “The Staditorium — 
the Dramatic Need of the Hour” at a famous col- 
lege where they will listen to anything. 

Telford laughed when Kate, a little shamefaced, 
explained the hope she had held out to the aspiring 
youth. “Don’t let your conscience trouble you,” he 
said. “He’s working in his own interest, like most 
of the enthusiasts whom you’ve enlisted in your 
cause. And, besides, if the Staditorium is ever built 
you can easily make him the manager. What an 
244 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


enormous area this imaginary New York occupies!’’ 
he added. “To look over your scrap-book, with its 
great flood of testimonials, sermons, interviews with 
prominent citizens, and lectures by ignoramuses, one 
would think that the entire town was clamoring 
for this ridiculous project. And yet there isn’t a 
single word from any one who either offers to con- 
tribute a dollar of money or asks to buy a ticket of 
admission. In other words, you seem to have the 
support of all classes save the only two that really 
count — the capitalists and the playgoers. By the 
way, who is the Finnish poet whose portrait with the 
whiskers and the fur overcoat accompanies his letter 
in the Sunday MegaphoneV^ 

Kate smiled roguishly: “He’s a little invention 
of my own. I found him tending the furnace in this 
building, and his whiskers made him look so learned 
that I tied Lady Clara’s fur boa round his neck and 
gave him a dollar to pose for me. Penfield tells me 
he has received two letters from people asking where 
they can get his poems!” 

“My dear Miss Craven,” said the other, “you 
reveal a spark of divine genius. Whiskers and a fur 
overcoat make a deeper impression on the people 
of New York than the highest forms of learning. 
You are creating some wonderful illusions — so won- 
derful, in fact, that I fear you may be deceived by 
them yourself. Work that Finn for all he is worth. 
He fits into the picture perfectly. Get Penfield to 
print a paragraph saying that his poems have never 
been translated, and don’t forget to mention the 
Staditorium. What did you have him say in his 
letter?” 

“I had him say that the Staditorium had long 

245 . 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


been the dream of every poet and dramatist in Fin- 
land, and that when the one in New York was 
completed he proposed to come over here in order to 
take part in the dedicatory exercises, bringing with 
him an ode to Thalia. Was that right.?’’ 

“My dear, you were more than right!” exclaimed 
Telford, with an enthusiasm unusual with him. “Of 
all persons in the world no one should know less of 
the needs of the New York stage than this Finnish 
bard; and of all the people who have contributed 
to your scrap-book there is none whose honest 
opinion is better worth having than this humble 
person who fixes the furnace. There is not a single 
great historic playhouse in the world that has not 
sprung directly from the lowly class to which he 
belongs.” 

“The poor man said he went to the theater when- 
ever he could afford it,” said Kate. 

“Precisely,” rejoined Telford. “He and his kind 
are the only ones who can create a distinctive school 
of drama. And yet to give his words any weight 
you have to tie Lady Clara’s fur boa round his 
neck and pretend that he’s a Finnish poet, and 
therefore not qualified to express an opinion. If 
you had said that he was the man who fixed the 
furnace, and was therefore competent to speak, this 
wise town would have laughed at him with the smug 
complacency of ignorance. You are certainly sage 
beyond your years. I am afraid there is nothing 
more that I can teach you.” 

There was one thing that the rewrite-man could 
have told this still unsophisticated country girl, and 
that was the danger that lurks in a pair of dark, 
rolling eyes and a voice attuned to the emotional 
246 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


chords of the feminine heart. Unfortunately, she 
never consulted him in regard to this most perilous 
of pitfalls, although there was no other matter 
concerning herself in which she did not give him her 
full confidence. In fact, she kept silent regarding 
the constant visits of Floodmere, telling herself that 
it was no one’s business but her own, yet knowing 
in her secret heart that she was in fear of Telford’s 
flaming sword of truth that would assuredly be 
drawn to drive her out from the fool’s paradise in 
which she was living. Much as she had learned from 
Telford about the real world in which she lived, he 
had not taught her the most important lesson that 
youth or maiden has to learn and which only a very 
few ever completely master. He had shown her 
how to look about her with a fairly clear vision; 
he had shown her how to deceive the public with 
her absurd Staditorium; but he had not taught her 
how to turn her eyes inward on her own soul so as 
not to deceive herself. 

The truth was that it never occurred to him that 
this cool-headed young woman, for whose intellec- 
tual qualities and personal character he felt an es- 
teem that was fast growing into something infinite- 
ly stronger, could possibly need his aid in the task 
of guarding her own affections. He knew, of course, 
that she frequently saw both Floodmere and Mrs. 
Rowenna, as she was the press-agent of both; and 
knowing, as he did, the relations existing between 
the two players as well as Kate’s high moral char- 
acter, he never guessed that a close intimacy was 
springing up between the actor with the emotional 
voice and the young woman who was making him 
famous. In short, he was ignorant of the compelling 
247 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


power of the actor-voice, which signifies that he 
did not understand women as well as he thought he 
did. Nor did he realize that the mere fact that, 
although she constantly spoke of her dealings with 
Mrs. Rowenna, she scarcely ever mentioned Flood- 
mere’s name, was something that would have long 
since put a wiser man on his guard. 

Meanwhile the actor was making the most of his 
opportunities. To do him justice, his passion for 
Kate was the most sincere and the least selfish of 
any that he had known in his life — and he had had 
countless love affairs since he first stepped from 
behind a counter into the bright light of the cal- 
cium^ He knew instinctively that she was an in- 
nately pure woman — he was familiar enough with 
the other kind — and the knowledge lifted his quest 
of her up to a higher plane than that of any of his 
previous wooings. Her intellectual qualities ap- 
pealed to him also, and he knew that it was useless 
to appeal to her with the wretched sophistries about 
“marriage in the sight of God” that Roberta had 
absorbed and digested so easily. Once he had voiced 
his admiration for a famous English writer, calling 
her “the glorious woman who dared to defy con- 
ventions for the sake of love,” but Kate had replied 
promptly that she would have proved herself far 
more glorious had she not, and he had promptly 
dismissed the topic from his amorous repertoire. 

It may seem strange to some of my readers that 
a young woman as clear-sighted as Kate should per- 
mit herself to drift into an intimacy with a man 
whose moral ideas she knew to be loose and whose 
intellectual qualities were of the most commonplace 
order. If her mother could have had but one good 
248 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


look at him we may be quite sure that that sagacious 
woman would have sounded the note of alarm with 
no uncertain voice. But Mrs. Craven was two hun- 
dred miles away, and Kate had never mentioned 
the actor in her letters home, stifling her conscience 
with the reflection that ‘‘mother doesn’t understand 
these things.” And besides, there was the compell- 
ing charm of the actor- voice. 

Moreover, Floodmere was playing his cards with 
an extraordinary skill born of long and varied prac- 
tice in love-making, an avocation which, like violin- 
playing, is carried on most successfully by those 
who do nothing else and can therefore give their 
whole time and attention to it. And as Kate con- 
cealed her growing infatuation from her mother, so 
did he keep silent to Roberta regarding his daily 
visits to Lady Clara’s flat. Whenever Kate called 
on Mrs. Rowenna, Floodmere made a point of going 
out, and he even contrived to put that keen woman 
off the scent by occasional reference to the beauty 
and charm of one of her most intimate friends. It 
is true that this aroused jealousy and finally led 
to a scene of mutual recrimination, precipitated by 
the arrival of a bunch of violets to which no card 
was attached and which the actor had craftily sent 
to himself. But such scenes were not rare in their 
lives, and Floodmere withdrew from her presence, 
chuckling at the thought that he had her “barking 
up the wrong tree.” 

In truth, it was a mess of sordid trouble into 
which Kate was being led by the will-o’-the-wisp of 
the actor-voice and rolling eyeballs. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


A nd all the time Telford was finding it harder 
^ and harder to keep Kate’s image out of his 
mind. Never what is termed a “marrying man,” 
he had long since settled down to a life of quiet 
domesticity with his mother, whom he loved more 
than any other woman. He felt that his first duty 
was to her, and he gladly spent all of his slender 
income on her comfort, saying nothing of what it 
meant to him in the loss of the luxuries to which his 
bringing up at the hands of a wealthy and indulgent 
father had accustomed him. He still retained his 
membership in the Fifth Avenue club, which his 
mother would not permit him to give up, for she 
regarded it as the last link with the great world of 
power and wealth and fashion. Telford had long 
since relegated to the background of memory the 
various love affairs of his early manhood. More 
than once he had considered marriage seriously, and 
he had even become engaged to a young woman 
whose name frequently figured in the social chroni- 
cles of her day as “one of the season’s debutantes.” 
This had happened soon after his graduation from 
Harvard. His father’s bankruptcy a year later 
broke off the match, and within another twelve 
months he compelled himself to a period of rigid 
economy in order to send her a dozen silver spoons 
with a letter wishing her “every happiness.” 

250 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘‘It costs money, but it’s worth it,” was his philo- 
sophic reflection as he turned down that page in his 
book of life. 

And now, at forty-two, he once more became 
conscious of the fact that he still possessed a heart 
and that its cravings were forcing themselves upon 
his attention with a' persistency that he could not 
disregard. Kate Craven appealed to his fastidious 
taste in a thousand different ways, not the least of 
which was the fact that she had withstood the rigors 
of Park Row life — enjoyed its good and bravely en- 
dured its evil — ^without deterioration of character. 
That she was intelligent enough to absorb his illu- 
minative discourses and profit by them was another 
point in her favor; that through him she had learned 
to see life with a clearer vision made her doubly 
dear to him. Nor was he insensible to her beauty. 
Her small, tempting mouth, her straightforward 
eyes, the exquisite curves of her rounded figure, all 
played havoc with his imagination and disturbed 
him at his work. But his duty to his mother stood 
like a stone wall between himself and all thoughts 
of marriage. And besides, what right had he to 
assume that this most attractive young girl, still in 
her early twenties, would unite her fortunes with 
those of a man who had so little in the way of 
worldly advantage to offer 

He tried, as many a man similarly placed has 
tried, to exclude her from his thoughts by keeping 
away from her, but a fortnight of this self-inflicted 
misery left him more sorely torn with anxiety than 
before, and he decided to see Kate at all hazards, 
if only to find out whether or no she had resumed her 
old intimacy with Penfield. 

251 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


She received him in her usual frank and friendly 
fashion, but seemed quite unconscious of the fact 
that an unusually long time had elapsed since his 
last call — an attitude of mind that mortified him 
not a little. She had not seen Penfield for nearly a 
month, she said; nor did she want to see him. But 
she was still working for him, sending suggestions 
and preparing special articles. Had Telford seen 
last Sunday’s portrait of Walter Floodmere seated 
in his library reading a book on Roman architecture 
in order to get ideas for the Staditorium.? That 
was her doing, she informed him with a merry 
laugh, adding, “That’s the fourth I’ve rung in 
on Mr. Penfield on that important project. I’m 
beginning to believe that he’s not quite as smart 
as I used to think he was. And when you remember 
that I’m getting fifty a week from him and fifty 
more out of the Staditorium people you’ll have to 
admit that I’m doing pretty well for a girl who was 
down and out a few weeks ago.” 

“You are certainly doing remarkably well,” he 
replied, greatly relieved on the score of Penfield; but 
the next moment the old feeling of jealousy returned 
in a new form. It was evident that she merely 
regarded him as a friend — perhaps merely a useful 
one, he thought with sudden bitterness. She must 
be in love with some one, if not with Penfield. Who 
was the lucky man? If he only knew his name he 
could at least hate him. He was still brooding over 
this harassing question when Floodmere’s name was 
announced, and a minute later the actor entered 
the room, resplendent in frock-coat, sharply creased 
trousers, and immaculate linen, and bearing in his 
hand his glossy silk hat. He bowed low over Kate’s 
252 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


hand, raised his large, expressive eyes to her face, 
and murmured, ‘‘Little one, you seem tired!” 

And the answering look in Kate’s eyes was not 
to be mistaken. Telford knew now whom he had 
to hate, and he addressed himself to the task ener- 
getically and without delay. 

“This is my friend, Mr. Telford,” murmured 
Kate, and the actor bowed with cold formality. 
“Mr. Telford is one of the editors of the Mega- 
phoney^ she added; and Mr. Floodmere smiled cor- 
dially and advanced with outstretched hand. There 
was no telling when an editor might become a useful 
friend or a malignant enemy, and that was a matter 
of no small importance to any actor of the school 
that ranks the press above the public. 

The rewrite- man, concealing under a genial ex- 
terior the ravening wolf that gnawed his vitals, 
remarked with a cordiality that was a surprise to 
their hostess: “I saw a picture of you in the Mega- 
phone last Sunday. I should have known you from 
the likeness.” 

“A picture of me!” exclaimed Floodmere, who 
had mailed a hundred copies of the page to his 
friends and was carrying one in his pocket at that 
very moment. “Ah yes. I remember now. Some 
one called my attention to it yesterday. I must 
get a copy.” 

“The picture showed you in your library reading 
a book on Roman architecture,” continued Telford, 
innocently, “and the story that accompanied it 
spoke of your great interest in the subject.” 

“Yes,” said the unsuspecting player, “it has al- 
ways been a favorite study of mine, especially now 
that I am busy with my plans for the Staditorium.” 

253 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘‘And of mine, too,” responded Telford, with 
cheerful approval. “Of course you’ve read Cata- 
line’s famous address to the Romans on the impor- 
tance of open-air theaters.^ What he said then ap- 
plies to modern theatrical conditions as well as to 
those of his day. Plutarch’s essays on the proper 
construction of the Stadium I’ve read so many times 
that I must know them by heart. However, it’s 
no use in talking to an authority like yourself, for 
you’re probably more familiar with the literature 
on the subject than I am.” 

“Yes, I’ve read a great deal,” replied Floodmere, 
uneasily, and then the rewrite-man continued: 

“By the way, there’s a favor I’m going to ask 
of you one of these days, and that is to have a look 
at your library. I should judge from the photo- 
graph that you were a scholar or literary man rather 
than an actor.” 

“My dear fellow, I should be delighted to oblige 
you,” said the other, “but the fact is, I sent my 
books to the storage-house just a few days ago, as 
I expect to go on the road shortly.” 

“That’s too bad,” said Telford. “However, the 
next time we meet I shall hope to hear more about 
your proposed Staditorium and the school of archi- 
tecture that you’ve decided on. To-day I am in a 
hurry to reach my office.” 

Greatly relieved, Floodmere sprang to his feet 
and cordially shook the other’s hand, while Kate, 
scarcely less relieved, but with an angry color in her 
cheeks, bade him a chilly adieu. He had put her 
admirer at a disadvantage, and she was very much 
annoyed. 

Telford went away more perturbed in spirit than 

254 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


ever. He had been quick to notice the effect on 
Kate the moment Floodmere entered the room, and 
the look in her eyes as she returned his admiring 
glance had told the story of her infatuation only too 
plainly. He himself had read the shallow mummer 
like an open book. Now he resolved to find out 
something about him, and accordingly he sought 
out Penhallow and asked him carelessly if there 
was anything in the Staditorium scheme that the 
papers were giving so much space to. 

‘‘There’s something in it for our friend Miss 
Craven,” replied the dramatic critic, “and that’s 
why I mention it in respectful terms from time to 
time, but I must say I should like to see her devoting 
her talents to some more worthy enterprise.” 

“I knew Miss Craven was doing the press work, 
but I was wondering who was backing the enter- 
prise,” said Telford. 

“It hasn’t any real backing that I know of,” 
rejoined Penhallow. “An alleged actress named 
Roberta Rowenna and a bad actor named Flood- 
mere are its sponsors, and they’re getting quite a 
little glory out of it, thanks to our talented young 
friend. I’d prick the bubble in a minute if it were 
not for her. I guess everybody in this office would 
like to see her make a living. I notice that even 
her one-time friend of the Sunday issue is printing 
a lot of stuff about it, possibly to ease his conscience. 
The whole scheme is amateurish, and Rowenna her- 
self is an amateur of the worst sort who tried to act 
on the strength of her scandal, got a few engage- 
ments at first — she’s a pretty woman — and then 
dropped out of the running till she bobbed up as a 
champion of the classic drama. Floodmere is an 
255 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


amateur, too, but he has a pull with women and 
can usually command a good salary. But they’re a 
worthless pair, and I hope Miss Craven will get into 
something better before long. Fve seen her at the 
theater or on the street with Floodmere several 
times lately, and it struck me that she was taking 
him quite seriously.” 

Penhallow’s last sentence was like a blow in the 
other’s face. He turned without another word, 
made his way back to his desk, and sat there for 
fully ten minutes in abject misery. For the first 
time he acknowledged to himself that he was hope- 
lessly in love and that the only way out of his 
unhappiness was through marriage. Why, he asked 
himself with feelings of indescribable bitterness, had 
he not admitted his passion long ago and offered 
himself to Kate before she fell under the spell of this 
actor with the smooth tongue and the rolling eye- 
balls.? Then suddenly he thought of the real danger 
that threatened her, and he determined to do his 
best to save her, even if it cost him the friendship 
that had become so dear to him. And never before 
had this friendship seemed as precious as now that 
he was in peril of losing it. A spirit of self-sacrifice 
took possession of his soul, bringing with it some- 
thing like peace. 

How to proceed was the next question. Kate was 
one of the purest-minded girls he had ever known, 
and the actor a man of notoriously loose morals. 
Surely if she could be brought to a full realization 
of Floodmere’s true character she would recoil from 
him with horror. He determined to see her without 
delay, and with a sense of something like relief 
he applied himself to his work of rewriting. 

256 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


And while this very sincere friend was devoting 
himself unselfishly to Kate’s best interests, Flood- 
mere was making a far more effective appeal to her 
sympathy by awakening in her breast those emo- 
tions that lie even closer to love than does the bitter 
hatred that is born of jealous longing. Indeed, 
while the rewrite -man was sitting before his un- 
touched manuscript the actor was tearfully explain- 
ing to his press-agent that not only was he unable 
to pay her the month’s salary due that morning, 
but that he was under the painful necessity of ap- 
plying to her for a small sum of money sufficient to 
tide him over till the arrival of certain remittances 
on which he could absolutely depend. 

‘‘The fact is,” said Floodmere, “Roberta, al- 
though the noblest of women, is heedless in money 
matters. Her allowance is always spent before it 
reaches her, and then, of course, she has to turn 
to me. I cannot refuse her anything she asks, and 
the result is that the end of the month finds me 
without the means of meeting our necessary ex- 
penses. Of course, our embarrassment is only tem- 
porary, but you know how important appearances 
are in our business, especially when we are in the 
public eye in connection with a scheme of such 
colossal magnitude as the Staditorium. I am liter- 
ally forced by our necessities to apply to you for a 
small sum to enable us to keep afloat until fortune 
turns our way. I wanted to go to our bankers, but 
she said no. It would injure our credit and destroy 
public confidence in the Staditorium were it known 
that we were in need of money at this critical mo- 
ment. Then we both thought of you as one who 
could keep a secret and whose generous heart might 

257 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


be appealed to. You may judge what it has cost 
me in humiliation, in the lowering of my pride of 
manhood, in self-abasement to come to you with 
this plea for aid.’’ 

With a sudden, almost convulsive movement 
Floodmere rose from his chair and walked rapidly 
toward the window, where he stood gazing out into 
the street. It seemed to Kate that the shoulders 
under the beautifully fitted coat shook with emo- 
tion. She noticed also the crease in his trousers. 
The handkerchief flashed from his breast pocket 
to his eyes, diffusing its agreeable scent.. Never 
before had he seemed to her so noble, so unselfish, 
so disinterested as in this moment of his appeal to 
what men who live by stirring feminine emotions call 
the “maternal instinct.” Deeply touched by the 
compelling arguments of the creased trousers, the 
well-fitting coat under which the shoulders quivered, 
and the soft notes of the actor-voice, she exclaimed: 

“I’m glad you came to me for help. How much 
do you need ?” 

There was an emotional quality in her voice that 
reached the actor’s keen ears and added a hundred 
dollars to the amount he had intended to ask for. 
“If you could possibly spare three hundred and 
also let our account with you run on for a little 
while it would save both our lives,” he replied, 
without turning his head. 

“I shall be glad to let you have it,” said Kate, 
going to her desk for her check-book. 

“Little one,” said the actor, as he thrust the slip 
of paper into the pocket of his silk waistcoat, “you 
have taught me a lesson to-day which I shall never 
forget. You have taught me that a woman can be 
258 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


kind and generous and self-sacrificing as well as 
beautiful.” 

He raised her hand to his lips, and with the hand- 
kerchief still pressed to his eyes groped his way to the 
door, thus bringing into play the effective exit that 
he had used with so much success in the second act 
of ‘‘Fated, Yet Free.” 

i8 


CHAPTER XXIV 


L ate that night Penhallow, dropping into the 
office to read the proofs of his Sunday article, 
stopped, as he often did, for a brief chat with Tel- 
ford. dined with some friends at Delmonico’s 
to-night,’’ he remarked, ‘‘and there was that actor 
we were talking about to-day. He was alone, and 
I noticed that he had a quart and then a pint of 
champagne and a whole roast partridge. He must 
have touched somebody for the money, for he hasn’t 
had an engagement for months, and I’ve heard he 
was quite hard up lately.” 

“It’s curious how the wind is always tempered 
to such fellows,” said Telford, reflectively. “If I 
were broke I’d find it a hard matter to borrow 
enough money for such a dinner as that.” 

“Floodmere looks to me like the sort of man that 
would get money from a woman, and if a man has 
that ability he need never work,” rejoined the dra- 
matic critic, carelessly. A moment later he walked 
away, leaving the re-write man deep in thought. 

Telford had always prided himself on his ability 
to distinguish from among his fellows the man who 
was “broke,” and there was an indefinable something 
in the actor’s appearance that suggested to a trained 
instinct that he had not a cent in his pockets. His 
clothes fitted him so well that there did not seem 
to be room anywhere for a roll of bills. Evidently 
260 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


he had raised some money between that afternoon 
and the dinner-hour — presumably from a woman, 
for he was not the sort of man to inspire in other 
men that supreme confidence that begets a loan. 
That look of trust Telford had seen himself in Kate 
Craven’s eyes, and he had gone off and left the two 
together ! 

About this time Penfield began to realize that all 
was not going well with him. One or two rather 
sharp cablegrams from Barshfield indicated that his 
employer was not altogether pleased with his editing 
of the Sunday Megaphone. He determined there- 
fore to learn from the lips of the circulation manager 
— a taciturn little gray-haired Irishman who had 
been with the paper for thirty-five years — exactly 
how he was succeeding with the public. 

‘‘We’re doing better this week; we’re almost 
holding our own,” was the Irishman’s terse and 
humiliating reply. 

“Do you mean to say that we’ve been losing 
ground?” demanded Penfield. 

“Right along,” answered Flannigan. “We’ve lost 
about forty thousand since you took hold.” 

“I wish you’d told me that before!” exclaimed the 
Sunday editor, petulantly. 

“I’m not supposed to answer questions before 
they’re put up to me,” said the Irishman, doggedly. 

Penfield returned to his desk and remained for 
some time in profound and unhappy meditation, 
after which he went up to Kate’s apartment and 
was received with a cold politeness that showed him 
plainly that she was by no means ready to return 
to the old intimacy. Even when he made a clean 
breast of his troubles and literally threw himself 
261 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


on her mercy she showed no signs of softening. 
If he had been a keener observer he would have 
detected in her eyes a gleam of triumph of the kind 
that puts a prudent man on his guard. 

Kate Craven knew that she had him in her power, 
but his treachery had left in her soul a bitterness 
that precluded all thought of mercy. She was learn- 
ing that revenge is sweet, and she felt less a woman 
and more a man than she had ever thought possible. 

‘‘What do you want^e to do.?” she inquired, 
coldly, as her one-time sweetheart brought his re- 
cital to a close. 

“Help me to build up the circulation again.” 

“In that case,” she said, “I ought to have your 
position and draw your salary. No; you walked 
over me into that job, and you can’t look to me to 
keep it for you.” 

“You seem to forget that Fm paying you fifty 
dollars a week.” 

“Yes; to furnish you with ideas, in which you 
are sadly deficient — not to run the supplement for 
you and let you take all the credit and money that 
goes with it.” 

“Then give me some ideas!” rejoined Penfield. 

Kate Craven addressed herself to the double work 
of unseating Penfield and advancing her own inter- 
ests with a cynical joy worthy of a blood-relation 
of the Borgias. If any qualms of conscience assailed 
her she put them to flight with the reflection that 
she was fighting a treacherous man with the weapons 
of his own sex. She brought to this welcome task 
much native talent sharpened by experience in news- 
paper work and keen observation. Knowing how 
women detest all the semi-public, over-advertised 
262 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


members of their sex who are always obtruding 
themselves on the attention of the world, she wrote 
gushing eulogies of those whose claims to renown were 
the most exasperating to the great sisterhood of 
the intelligent and right-minded. She made a cun- 
ning appeal to the same element through descrip- 
tions of the ‘Mainty” homes of certain inferior 
actresses who were notorious either for having no 
homes of their own or for having projected themselves 
into the homes of others. ' She told how to dress 
well on two hundred a year, and more than one 
woman hid the paper for fear her husband would 
see it. Many others discontinued it altogether for 
printing a preposterous bill of fare, the purport of 
which was to show that by economizing on lunch- 
eons, when the men of the family were away, great 
savings in housekeeping could be effected. 

In his efforts to curry favor with the highly 
placed Penfield devoted much of his space to the 
many stupid and absurd schemes in which fashion- 
ably serious women evince fleeting interest. He 
printed from week to week accounts of the doings 
of the Society for the Uplift of the Drama, whose 
mission was to impart knowledge of the stage to the 
“lower classes’’ — the only people in town who know 
anything about it. He enraged half the knowing 
women in the town by his fulsome praise of the 
various undertakings of Mrs. Chilton-Smythe, a 
dominant figure in the mirage of city life and thor- 
oughly detested by those who were aware of the 
utter emptiness of her brain and heart. 

Meantime the circulation of the Sunday paper 
slowly declined, and the office “sat tight” and won- 
dered who would be the next editor. That Penfield 
263 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


had proved a failure was generally known, but that 
Kate Craven had been an active agent in hastening 
his downfall none, save only those astute partners 
Macy and Vanderlip, suspected. But as Penfield 
had not a single friend in the office, except poor 
Lady Clara, he met only smiling faces and words of 
hearty encouragement. Vanderlip was even malevo- 
lent enough to tell him that the weekly puffs of the 
Society for the Uplift of the Drama were attracting 
a great deal of attention. And so they were. 

And all this time Kate was steadily keeping the 
Staditorium in the public eye. It was one of those 
worthless projects that everybody in the mirage 
was willing to indorse, and through it many per- 
sons whose opinions were quite valueless succeeded 
in getting into print. Mrs. von Schneider, the Joan 
of Arc of the garment-workers, declared in an inter- 
view that the establishment of this mammoth place 
of amusement would unquestionably prove an ‘‘up- 
lift” to the working-classes despite the fact that, 
according to her own showing, they were in a state 
of hungry destitution. However, the poor of New 
York are never so poor that professional “uplift- 
ing” cannot suggest some way for them to spend 
money. 

Floodmere was called an actor simply because 
he had frequently appeared before the footlights. 
Neither by birth nor by instinct could he claim mem- 
bership in the great band of strollers whose art, 
fleeting though it be, lies closer to humanity and 
has a stronger and quicker appeal to the heart 
than any other. His equipment was entirely phys- 
ical and sartorial. If he had advertised in the 
Clipper he would have called himself a “good dresser, 
264 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


on and off.” His rolling eyes and perfectly fitting 
clothes, and, above all, the finely modulated tones 
of his tricky actor-voice, formed a triumvirate of 
appealing power to the unthinking; but at best he 
was nothing more than a mere monologist or ‘‘spe- 
cialty’’ performer, for he had never learned to listen 
and was therefore unable to blend his work with 
that of other performers. It was always quite ap- 
parent that he was thinking of himself and what he 
called his “effects,” instead of what was going on 
in the mimic scene in which he had a part. 

Now this method of appeal, which lacks the true 
essential of acting, is peculiarly effective when em- 
ployed in the noble work of captivating the feminine 
heart, and Floodmere used it with extraordinary 
success in his dealings with Kate Craven. Accom- 
plished in the many meretricious arts of attracting 
attention to himself rather than to the drama, he 
had always found it easier to compel the sympathies 
of the women with whom he was talking than to 
hold an entire audience that contained an element 
sufficiently enlightened to demand real acting. And 
he employed these arts with telling effect in the par- 
lor of Lady Clara’s flat. He never said a word about 
love — the time had not yet come for that — but he 
sometimes spoke of his poverty and of his bitter 
struggle to maintain the high ideals that had been 
the constellation of guiding stars of his life; and it 
was in these fine moments that Kate seemed to 
see the crown of martyrdom shining on his brow. 
His poverty she was well aware of, and when he 
spoke of his ideals she was quite willing to take 
them for granted, too, though she never knew ex- 
actly what they were. She was happy in the thought 
265 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


that in lending him money she was helping him to 
attain them. 

For some weeks she saw nothing of Telford; then 
quite unexpectedly he called. He could not fail 
to notice the coldness of her greeting, for she had 
not forgiven him for ‘‘drawing out’’ Floodmere on 
the occasion of his last visit. 

“How are you getting along?” he inquired. 

“Very well,” responded Kate, with an almost im- 
perceptible tightening of her lips, as she thought of 
what Floodmere owed her. 

“Still making a hundred a week?” 

With a slight hesitation which helped to con- 
firm her visitor’s suspicions Kate replied that she 
was. 

“Collecting it all regularly?” he continued. 

“What I haven’t collected is perfectly good,” she 
answered. 

“Then there is some owing you! Have you been 
lending anybody money besides?” 

“That’s something that concerns only two per- 
sons, neither one of whom is you,” she replied, 
sharply. 

“I’ve been rather afraid that would happen,” 
observed Telford, regretfully. “When I saw that 
actor - man with the damp, flowing locks and the 
rolling eyes I began to suspect what he was after. 
He has all the ear-marks of a man who lives on 
women’s emotions, and those lie on the direct route 
to their pocketbooks.” 

Kate’s face flushed angrily as the shaft, barbed 
with truth, found its mark. Forgotten were the 
many kindnesses, the unselfish devotion, the wise 
counsel that had put her for ever in the debt of this 
266 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


man, than whom she had known none of higher 
principle. 

“Mr. Telford,” she cried, angrily, “you have no 
right to sneer at any one whom you don’t know, 
and especially at a man as noble and self-sacrificing 
as Walter Floodmere. If I have helped him in his 
troubles it is because I know him to be the soul of 
honor. If in spite of his splendid talents he finds 
himself embarrassed, it is because of his artistic 
temperament. But he will triumph yet, and the 
world will recognize him as the great actor that 
he is.” 

“Will that be when he appears on the stage of the 
Staditorium.?” asked Telford. 

“It will be when he appears on any stage!” re- 
plied Kate, angrily. “He only needs the oppor- 
tunity, and I think it detestable in you to try to 
crush a genius like that simply because he happens 
to be down on his luck. People talk about women’s 
jealousy and distrust of one another, but they’re 
not a circumstance compared with men’s.” 

“Good God!” cried the rewrite-man. “I never 
dreamed that a woman as sensible as you are — 
sometimes — could fall in love with such an empty- 
headed ass as that actor-man with the rolling eyes.” 

Pale and trembling, Kate rose to her feet. Not 
since her childhood had she been so furiously angry. 
“Mr. Telford, I don’t care to listen to another 
word. You have insulted me as no man ever in- 
sulted me before.” 

She remained standing, and there was no mistak- 
ing the significant look that she directed toward the 
door. Telford saw in that look his final dismissal; 
and, although he hesitated for a moment as if about 
267 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


to speak, he took his hat, bowed to her politely, 
and withdrew without a word. 

As the door closed behind him Kate threw herself 
on the sofa and burst into tears of rage and mortifi- 
cation. She felt that their intimacy was ended for 
ever, and she was thankful for it. She only hoped 
that they might never meet again. She could not 
forgive him for what he had said. In every one of 
his words she now saw a premeditated insult. 

But how had he learned of her loan to Floodmere.^ 
Surely the actor himself could not have told? No! 
He was too sensitive to have revealed the secret. The 
delicacy and hesitancy with which he had made known 
to her his necessities, the reluctance with which he 
had accepted her check, the emotional quiver in his 
voice as he named the precise sum of which he stood 
in pressing need, all testified to the nobility of his 
soul. But who could have told of the transaction? 
It must have been Roberta! It was for her even 
more than for himself that he had asked the favor. 
But even she would not have told it of her own 
accord. Telford must have wormed the secret from 
her lips. It was quite likely that he would not 
hesitate to spread the news through Park Row. 
Now she was certain that she could never forgive 
him, and her tears started afresh at the thought of 
his treachery. 

Floodmere, calling later in the afternoon, was 
quick to notice signs of trouble in her face, and his 
own countenance assumed a look of anxious con- 
cern as he took both her hands in his and said: 
“Tiny one, I fear that all is not well with you to- 
day. Your eyes are red. You have been weeping. 
Your cheeks are pale. I cannot bear to see you suf- 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


fer. It means far greater suffering for me. But if 
you must suffer, let me suffer, too. When I came to 
you with my own troubles you hastened to help me.” 

The actor-voice trembled beneath its weight of 
tender sympathy. Its effect on the bruised heart 
to which it was addressed was like that of an opiate 
given to relieve pain. Under its spell Kate’s angry 
mood softened, and a delicious peace descended upon 
her. A momentary wish that she might stand there 
for ever with the actor’s hands clasping hers and his 
dark, melancholy eyes fixed upon her took possession 
of her soul. Floodmere, whose boast it was that 
he always knew when he had ‘‘made his effect,” 
remained silent, and permitted a smile of ineffable 
sweetness to spread over his mobile face. 

“Won’t you tell me what it is?” he murmured, 
at last, and again Kate thrilled at his words. 

“It’s nothing,” she replied brokenly, “only that 
one whom I regarded as my friend has — has treated 
me as I never thought any one could treat me — 
insulted me!” 

Her voice broke in a sob, and Floodmere’s brow 
darkened. “Insulted you!” he exclaimed, with a 
note of menace in his voice that suggested that his 
was a dangerous spirit to arouse. His “reserve force” 
was one of his strong points. “I cannot conceive of 
any one, no matter how base, daring to insult such 
an exquisitely divine creature as you. Was it that 
newspaper man whom I met here the other day? 
I felt an antipathy to him the moment I came into 
the room. I knew that his soul was too small to 
be attuned to ours — ^yours and mine. Shall I seek 
him out and demand an apology?” 

“No, no!” cried Kate, instinctively tightening her 
269 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


fingers on his smooth, flabby hand, for his face was 
like a thunder-cloud, and she feared the forked 
lightning of his wrath. “He found out that I had 
advanced you some money — ’’ 

“But I never spoke of it to any one — not even 
to Roberta!’’ interrupted the actor. “Surely you 
could not have been thoughtless enough to betray 
my secret!^” 

“Of course I did not. That was our aflPair — ^yours 
and mine. I thought Mrs. Rowenna must have told 
somebody in her reckless way of talking.” 

“She is reckless!” said Floodmere. “That’s why 
I was careful not to let her know anything about 
the transaction.” 

This was more than true. He had not even told 
her that he had any money. 

“Somebody must have told him, and I felt so 
mortified on your account,” murmured Kate, bro- 
kenly. 

“Dear one,” said Floodmere, “that you should 
think of me and my feelings at such a moment is 
more than I deserve at your sweet hands.” 

There was a splendid intensity in his voice that 
was not thrown away, as he could see quite plainly. 
It was one of the best of his bag of vocal tricks 
and one that he used sparingly and seldom without 
success, especially when, as in this case, supple- 
mented by a little expert work with the handker- 
chief. Then, seating himself and dropping into his 
colloquial note, he continued: “I almost forgot 
what I came to talk to you about. I am sure you 
will be glad to know that I am beginning to see 
daylight again. There is every prospect of an en- 
gagement for both Roberta and myself. If we can 
270 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


only manage the question of wardrobe it will put 
us on Easy Street, and in a very few weeks we shall 
be square with the world and with you, my dear 
friend — no, not square with you; I can never make 
up to you for what you have done for us. It is 
indeed a glorious opportunity. The play is as 
strong a one as I have ever read. You will faint 
when I tell you the name of the author, but my sacred 
word of honor binds me to absolute secrecy. There 
will be a riot on Broadway when the news leaks 
out. I only wish I could tell you about my part. 
It is tremendous, moving, and on such an exalted 
plane of endeavor that it thrills my soul to think 
of it. But I dare not give you even the slightest 
hint of it. As to the costumes, they are simply 
beyond belief — and there’s the rub!” 

‘‘What do you mean by ‘the rub’?” asked his 
companion. 

“The matter of costumes!” he made answer. 
“You see, in such a stupendous production as this 
it is customary for the star to dress his own part, 
and I signed the contract without thinking of every 
little detail any more than my manager did. Indeed, 
I learned afterward that he was so anxious to secure 
me that I might have got two hundred a week more 
by merely holding out for it. It was not until the 
next day that I remembered not only my impover- 
ished condition but my obligations to you, and it 
seemed as if this golden opportunity was eluding 
my grasp. It is a bitter thing to have fortune knock 
at your door and then find that you are unable to 
lift the latch.” 

His voice broke at his last words, and the white 
handkerchief flashed into momentary view. 

271 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘‘How much would the costumes cost?’’ asked 
Kate. 

“A matter of two hundred dollars!” replied Flood- 
mere, mournfully. 

“I can let you have two hundred,” said Kate, 
quickly. 

Floodmere, who, as I have said before, always 
“knew his effects,” had been waiting for this cue 
and was prepared to make the moment a memorable 
one. He turned slowly in his chair and fixed his 
dark eyes on his companion. “Fow lend me the 
money after all you have done for me? No, I cannot 
take it! My debt to you is too great already. No, 
little one, it must not be. Rather let this splendid 
opportunity perish, and even the Staditorium, the 
idol of my heart, fall in a crumbling heap than accept 
assistance from your generous hand! But if I live 
to be a hundred I shall never forget your noble 
generosity. I had better leave you now. I cannot 
think of you unmoved.” 

He rose from his chair, opened the gates of his 
emotional property-room and permitted a few blind- 
ing tears (the most precious of his properties) to 
course silently down his cheeks. A far better actor 
on the hearth-rug than before the footlights, he had 
long since mastered the art of borrowing money in 
a halo of nobility. Kate was deeply moved by his 
gratitude and air of tearful self-abnegation. “Non- 
sense!” she exclaimed. “You must take it. I be- 
lieve in you, and I know that you will pay me when 
you can.” 

He raised a protesting hand, and something like 
a sob escaped from between his lips as she rapidly 
wrote a check and handed it to him. He tried to 
272 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


speak his thanks, but could utter no word. Instead 
he raised her hand to his lips, imprinted on it a fer- 
vent kiss, and hurried from the room. The tear-duct 
valve closed automatically before he reached the 
elevator, and as he hastened toward Broadway it 
was a smiling, joyous face that he turned toward 
the world. 

And a woman who had been pacing up and down 
the opposite sidewalk for half an hour followed him 
down the street with malice in her eye. 


CHAPTER XXV 


HEN a man succeeds in climbing to a high 



V V moral plane he is seldom aware of the alti- 
tude he has attained. That is one reason why a 
really conscientious soul is always without a pose. 
All unknowing, Telford had lifted himself from a 
state of quite natural resentment and jealousy to 
the lofty, unselfish plane at which men forget them- 
selves and think only of others. To thus raise him- 
self from human passion to the rarefied air of self- 
forgetfulness had been a bitter struggle, but now, 
firmly established above the reach of all mean re- 
sentment and envy, a spirit of comparative peace 
took possession of his soul. During this bitter 
struggle he had completely eliminated himself, his 
love, and his hopes from the matter in hand, and 
cast out the devil of jealousy — a personage not 
easily dislodged. It was not to defeat Floodmere 
that he was scheming now, but to save the girl 
whom he still loved, but whom he looked upon as 
one who had passed as completely out of his life 
as that earlier love for whose wedding-gift he had 
once proudly scrimped and saved. 

That it would be worse than useless for him to 
try to see her again and reason with her he was 
well aware. And besides, he did not care to see 
her again, not because of her treatment of him 
but because she had loaned money to Floodmere, 


274 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


for he knew only too well that when a woman lends 
money to a man her soul is in serious danger. It 
was now only a question of how it could be done 
without exciting her antagonism. And it must be 
done quickly, too. 

Of course he thought of Lady Clara at once; 
then dismissed her from his mind as a foolish, 
sentimental woman, correct in life, but easy-going 
in her ideas of morality. She would be quite sure 
to regard with favor Kate’s intimacy with Flood- 
mere. Suddenly he remembered what Kate had 
told him about her old home in Graytown and her 
mother, who was still living there. She would com- 
prehend her daughter’s peril and appreciate the 
purity of his own motives in summoning her. He 
would go to her without a moment’s delay, and, even 
at the risk of seeming intrusive, he would put the 
matter before her in its strongest light. 

It was an easy matter for him to obtain a leave 
of absence, and at ten o’clock on a fine spring morn- 
ing he knocked at the door of the little white cot- 
tage on the outskirts of Graytown and was admitted 
by Mrs. Craven herself. 

have known your daughter very well,” he 
said, ‘‘and so I have taken the liberty of calling on 
you. My name is Telford.” 

Mrs. Craven’s face brightened at once, for she 
had already formed a favorable opinion of her 
visitor from her daughter’s letters, an opinion that 
was confirmed by one keen glance at the clear-cut, 
trustworthy face. 

“So you’re Mr. Telford!” she exclaimed, cordially. 
“Well, I’m right glad to see you! What brings you 
so far away from New York?” 

19 275 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


And Telford, whose glance at the other’s face had 
been fully as keen and searching as her own, pro- 
ceeded at once to the matter in hand. He told her 
of his friendship for Kate and of the pride he had 
taken in her success in Park Row. He spoke of the 
respect that she commanded from those who knew 
her, of her circumspect conduct, of the brave fight 
that she had made after losing her position on the 
Megaphone. ‘H suppose you know,” he remarked, 
‘‘that she owed this misfortune to the treachery 
of a man whom she had looked upon as a friend and 
trusted accordingly.” 

“I didn’t know it, but I guessed it!” exclaimed 
Mrs. Craven, vehemently. “I’ve warned my daugh- 
ter against that young man from the very first, but 
of course these young people always know a heap 
more than their elders. You needn’t tell me his 
name, Mr. Telford. If ever there was a man that 
had scalawag written across his face it’s that Pen- 
field. So Kate has come to see him in his true colors, 
has she.^ Well, I’m glad if she’s found him out at 
last.” 

“I think she has,” replied her visitor, “and I’m 
glad to learn that you always estimated him at his 
true value. But you know the old saying, ‘Out of 
the frying-pan into the fire’? No sooner was she 
rid of him than another one, even less desirable, 
made his appearance, and it was on account of him 
that I made the journey from New York to have a 
little talk with you.” 

He spoke lightly and with a pleasant smile, so 
as not to cause needless alarm; but Mrs. Craven’s 
keen sense told her that only a serious matter could 
have impelled this man with the well-bred manner 
276 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


and honest eyes to undertake the long journey 
from New York on her daughter’s behalf. She made 
no outcry, nor did her cheek lose for a single instant 
its normal color. Like every wise person at a critical 
moment, she sat still and listened. Wiser than 
most women, she sat very still and listened with 
tense interest, her eyes fixed on those of her visitor. 
If she had been playing a tense scene on the stage 
her quiet listening would have added immeasurably 
to its effectiveness. Floodmere would have called 
her a ‘‘good feeder.” 

And while she listened Telford told in quiet 
speech the story of Kate’s infatuation, as it had 
been revealed to him in unmistakable fashion by 
the lighting up of her face at Floodmere’s approach, 
by his discovery that she had loaned him money, 
and by many other signs. Only once did Mrs. 
Craven give evidence that her feelings had been 
deeply stirred by his recital, and that was when he 
said that Kate’s admirer was an actor. He had 
craftily saved this bit of information till the last, 
and the almost imperceptible tightening of her lips, 
together with something like a flash from her gray 
eyes, told him that the utterance had reached her 
heart. Her old-fashioned Yankee blood was up at 
the thought of her daughter in love with a vagabond 
player. 

As he ceased speaking she said in low, earnest 
tones, “Will you tell me, Mr. Telford, just why 
you have come all this way to inform me about my 
daughter.?” 

“Because,” he replied, “she has become very 
dear to me during the time that I have known her. 
That, however, is a thing of the past. After my 
277 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


last talk with her, in which I expressed my opinion 
of this man rather forcibly and, I fear, tactlessly, 
I doubt if she will care to see me again. But it is 
quite possible for a man’s interest in a woman to 
survive the deeper feeling, and I could not see her 
in danger without at least making an effort to save 
her. That is why I have made the journey, Mrs. 
Craven.” 

“I can never thank you enough,” said the other, 
simply. “I have thought for some time that my 
daughter was hiding something from me — a mother’s 
intuitions are very quick where her only child is 
concerned — and now that I know what it is a weight 
is off my mind. I shall take the first train for New 
York.” 

“Of course — ” began Telford, but she interrupted 
him. 

“I know what you are going to say. I am 
not going to mention your visit. Then all the fat 
would be in the fire. All I want is one good look 
at this actor-man, and I’ll know what to say and 
what to do. Oh, these girls that must needs go to 
New York and have a career! It’s a wonder to me 
that one of them can come out of that Babylon of 
iniquity with a rag of reputation on her back. I 
can’t get to my daughter any too quick.” 

They made the journey to New York together, 
and at nine o’clock Mrs. Craven found herself in 
Lady Clara’s parlor. All day long she had been 
tortured by the doubts and apprehensions that 
forced themselves upon her anxious mind. But 
these were all swept away in an instant by the 
warmth of her daughter’s greeting and the look in 
her eyes — the old, honest, straightforward look that 
278 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


she knew so well — as, after the first rapturous em- 
brace, she held her mother off at arm^s-length and 
gazed at her with an aflPection that stirred the elder 
woman’s heart as it had not been stirred in many 
a long year. And as the doubts vanished there 
came upon her the peace and sense of well-being 
to which she had long been a stranger. 

And while Kate busied herself with necessary 
preparations — her mother must have her room while 
she slept on an improvised cot in the parlor — Mrs. 
Craven’s sharp eyes noted a row of photographs on 
the mantelpiece, and she rose from her chair to 
examine them. She picked out Floodmere’s por- 
traits from among the rest— there were three of 
them in as many different poses — and she read his 
character in the weak mouth, the large, dark eyes, and 
the elaborately tossed locks of hair, with the divi- 
nation of a soothsayer. Mrs. Rowenna’s vapid, 
pretty face did not appeal to her, but she liked the 
portrait of Mrs. Marshall and called to Kate to 
inquire who she was. She pointed also to Penhallow’s 
picture, but made no allusion to the three photo- 
graphs of the actor; nor did her daughter. 

They were thus engaged when the door opened 
and Lady Clara entered, accompanied by Flood- 
mere, at sight of whom Kate colored in a way that 
confirmed all that Telford had said and told her 
mother that she had not come any too soon. 

‘‘I met Mr. Floodmere down-stairs and told him 
to come right up and not bother to send up his 
name,” cried Lady Clara, effusively. Her face was 
slightly rouged, and she was wearing one of the 
most grotesque of the season’s hats, a gift from the 
man milliner whose wares she had described on her 
279 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Woman’s Page the day before. Her gown, also the 
gift of an enterprising tradesman, was of striking 
design and brilliant hue, and even Kate, accustomed 
as she was to her friend’s ornate style of dressing, 
glanced apprehensively at her mother, who was sit- 
ting perfectly still in her chair, her gaze alternating 
between Floodmere and Lady Clara, her immobile 
face showing no sign of her thoughts. 

Meanwhile the actor was bending low over Kate’s 
hand and murmuring, “You seem tired to-night, 
little one,” when his eye fell upon the upright figure 
and tense, cold stare of Mrs. Craven. He recognized 
her at once from the portrait on the mantelpiece 
and came forward with both hands outstretched, 
crying: “And this is your mother! I have known 
of you so long that I feel almost like an old friend. 
My own dear mother passed away many years ago, 
and since then — ^well, I have always told our young 
friend here that she should be thankful that God 
has spared you to her so many years.” 

He used his voice with what seemed to Kate 
telling effect, and with a certain tricky catch in his 
last word that made her eyes dim. But, rather to her 
surprise, her mother remained unmoved and merely 
offered her hand in greeting, with the words, “I sup- 
pose you must be one of my daughter’s new friends, 
but she hasn’t seen fit to introduce us yet.” 

“This is Mr. Floodmere, mother,” said Kate, 
nervously; “and this is Mrs. Grimmond,” she 
added. 

“Oh! Well, I’m glad to meet Mr. Floodmere,” 
replied the old lady, “and Mrs. Grimmond, too. 
I’ve often heard of you, madam,” she remarked, as 
she struggled out of the low easy-chair and grasped 
280 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Lady Clara’s hand, ‘'You’ve been very kind to 
my daughter, and I’m grateful to you.” 

The wise old soul had seen and recognized the 
kindness that shone through the rouge from under 
the brim of the absurd hat. 

Floodmere, realizing with almost feminine intui- 
tion that he had somehow “missed his effect,” took 
up his hat and, murmuring softly, “I’ll leave you 
with your mother. Miss Craven; you will have 
much to say to one another,” made a graceful exit. 
Soon afterward Lady Clara bade the visitor an 
affectionate good night and shut herself up in her 
own room, leaving mother and daughter together 
before the gas-log. 

“So that’s your Lady Clara, is it?” said Mrs. 
Craven, grimly. “Something like a singed cat, I 
should say — considerably better than she looks.” 

“Oh, Lady Clara’s a dear, good soul!” exclaimed 
the other, warmly. “She’s been a mighty good 
friend to me, too, even if she does wear such awful 
clothes. But that’s a habit you can’t break her of. 
Besides, you know, they don’t dress in New York 
as they do in Graytown.” 

“That’s quite evident,” replied her mother, dryly. 
“And who’s that Mr. Floodmere?” she continued, 
in quiet, even tones, without raising her eyes from 
their fixed contemplation of the gas-log. 

“Why, that’s a particular friend of Lady Clara’s. 
He’s a very well-known actor. I’ve known him 
quite a little while, and he seems very nice. Aren’t 
you tired, mother? You can go to bed whenever 
you feel like it.” 

Mrs. Craven lifted her sternly questioning eyes 
suddenly to her daughter’s face, and the latter’s 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


gaze fell before them. ‘‘No, Fm not tired, and Fve 
no idea of going to bed yet a while. Haven’t you 
got a picture of that Mr. Telford among the rest? 
I gathered from your letters that you and he were 
quite friendly.” 

“We were until a short time ago. I’ve got one 
of his pictures, though, if you’d like to see it,” re- 
plied Kate, eagerly, glad enough to turn her mother’s 
thoughts from Floodmere. 

“No, thank you,” said Mrs. Craven. “If you’re 
not enough interested in him to keep his pictures 
on the mantel-shelf you can’t expect me to be. I’m 
much more interested in that actor-man with the 
long hair and the rolling eyes who was here a few 
minutes ago. I see you’ve got three of his photo- 
graphs, and yet you never mentioned him once in 
your letters. What about him, eh ?” 

“Why, there’s nothing about him except that 
he’s a good friend of mine — that is, in a business 
way. I’ve been doing his press work for him. He’s 
a splendid actor, and so kind and thoughtful.” 

“Where’s he acting now?” asked her mother, 
sharply. 

“Well, he’s resting just now, but he’s going to 
have an engagement very soon, and if you stay here 
long enough — and I hope you will, mother dear — 
I’ll take you to see him act.” 

“Thank you, but I’ve seen him act already, and 
I don’t find him anywhere near as good as Jefferson 
or Booth, and I saw them both in Boston before 
you were born.” 

“Why, mother, when did you see Mr. Floodmere 
act?” 

“About twenty minutes ago. Didn’t you know 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


he was play-acting all the time he was bowing and 
scraping and rolling his eyes about and talking about 
his dear old mother? Well, if you didn’t, it’s about 
time your mother came on here to New York to 
take care of you. There’s some one else you’ve 
got plenty of pictures of, and yet I don’t remember 
that you ever mentioned her or any one like her 
in your letters home. What’s that critter’s name. 
I’d like to know?” she demanded, pointing to a 
picture of Roberta Rowenna in the costume of 
Portia, a part that she had never played but hoped 
to, believing the dress to become her. 

‘‘Why, that’s Roberta Rowenna. She’s an actress, 
and a very fine one, too. She will appear with Mr. 
Floodmere in their new play.” 

“So she’s an actress, is she? Well, I certainly 
didn’t think that a typewriter or a salesgirl would 
rig herself out like that. And what relation is she 
to this Floodmere.?” 

“No relation. She’s been associated with him in 
a great many productions. Mother, you can’t un- 
derstand these things.” 

“Can’t I?” demanded Mrs. Craven. “Well, 
there’s a good many things I can understand, and 
this is one of them. I wasn’t born yesterday, and 
even if I have spent all my life in small towns 
there’s some things that you can’t fool me with, and 
this actor business is one of them. Now, I want you 
to tell me how deep you’ve got into the mire.” 

“Mother, how can you make such an insinuation?” 
demanded Kate, in tones of horror. 

“I don’t insinuate anything!” rejoined the elder 
woman, stoutly. “I know enough to tell whether 
my own daughter has gone to the bad or not the 
283 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


minute I clap eyes on her, but maybe it’s just as 
well I came along at the time I did. How deep 
have you gone into this mess?” 

“I don’t know what you mean by a mess. I’ve 
been doing press work for these people ever since 
I lost my place on the Megaphone. I had to earn 
money somehow, and this was the first chance that 
offered.” 

“How much have you been earning.?” asked Mrs. 
Craven. 

“More than I ever did in my life before! In all. 
I’ve been taking in a hundred dollars a week.” 

“Been saving your money?” 

“Yes, indeed; I’m living more economically than 
ever before.” 

“How much have you got now?” 

“Oh, quite a little sum,” said Kate, evasively. 

“I asked you how much you had,” said her mother, 
gazing at her steadfastly. “Tell me exactly how 
much money you’ve got in hand and in the bank. 
Bring out your check-book and let me see the bal- 
ance on the stub. I hain’t got much to my credit 
in the Gray town National, but I can tell to a penny 
just what I have got.” 

From her earliest infancy Kate had been taught 
to obey her mother implicitly, and this habit of a 
lifetime was too strong to be broken in a moment. 
She took the check-book from her desk; then, re- 
membering Floodmere’s name on the telltale stub, 
she returned it to its place. 

“Give me that book!” said her mother, sternly, 
and it was placed in her outstretched hand. It was 
carefully balanced, and Mrs. Craven’s keen eye lit 
at once on what she was looking for. 

284 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“Walter Floodmere, two hundred dollars! What's 
that for? Tickets to see him act?" she remarked. 
Then, turning back a few leaves, she added: “Wal- 
ter Floodmere, three hundred dollars! He’s had five 
hundred dollars within this last month, and all you’ve 
got left is one hundred and ten dollars and fifty 
cents. What did you let him have all that money 
for.?’’ 

“It was a — a business transaction between us. 
He’s going to appear in a play, and I’m his press- 
agent, so I’m interested in it,’’ said Kate, weakly, 
her face flushing under her mother’s cold scrutiny. 

“And how much does he pay you for getting his 
name in the papers, if that’s what you mean by 
press work?’’ continued Mrs. Craven. 

“Fifty dollars a week,’’ replied her daughter. 

“I don’t see any deposit of that amount lately. 
What do you do with all that money?’’ 

“Well, it costs something to live in New York, 
and — ’’ began the other, but her mother inter- 
rupted her: 

“You wrote me that you were getting fifty dollars 
a week from the Megaphone, You’re not spending 
more than that, are you? Kate Craven, you’ve 
been a-lendin’ money to that play-actor man, and 
you needn’t try to deny it. Now, tell me just how 
much he owes you.’’ 

“Besides the five hundred dollars he owes me 
for seven weeks’ work,’’ was the reply. 

“Eight hundred and fifty dollars!’’ said Mrs. 
Craven. Then she placed the check-book on the 
table and, looking her daughter steadily in the face, 
said very quietly: “I’m glad for my own peace of 
mind that I know you’re a good girl, Kate; a good 
285 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


girl, but a precious fool! I think Fm ready to go 
to bed now. Fve had a heap of worry on my mind 
lately, and Fm pretty well tuckered out. Now you 
can do some of the worrying — more’n eight hundred 
dollars of it.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


K ate awoke the next morning with a weight of 
mental depression so unusual with her that it 
was fully a minute before she understood it. Then 
the events of the night before — Floodmere’s brief 
call, and her mother’s unexpected visit and illumi- 
nating talk — came crowding back into her mind. 
She had lain awake for hours and had come to the 
conclusion that in lending Floodmere so much money 
she had acted foolishly. But her faith in him and 
his theatrical venture was as strong as ever. In a 
very few weeks he would produce his play, and all 
New York would acclaim him the great actor that 
he was. And then the Staditorium — she had written 
so much about that scheme that she had actually 
come to believe in it herself — might become an ac- 
complished fact. Then her mother would acknowl- 
edge that her daughter knew something about New 
York and the possibilities it had to offer. 

In spite of her own experiences and Telford’s 
enlightening conversation Kate still dwelt in the 
mirage that had appeared to her in her Graytown 
days. 

Breakfast over — Kate brought her mother’s to 
her in bed — Lady Clara put on a fearful and won- 
derful hat and departed for the office, and Kate 
seated herself at her desk and began her day’s work. 
It was nearly eleven when her mother appeared, 
287 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


not in a wrapper, but completely dressed, according 
to her lifelong custom. 

‘‘I declare,” she remarked, cheerfully, ‘‘I hain’t 
laid in bed as late as this since you were a baby. 
But Fve had a grand sleep, and that’s something I 
haven’t had for some time. My mind’s at rest now, 
and so will yours be when I’ve knocked a little 
sense into it.” 

At this moment the telephone rang, and Kate 
took the receiver in her hand. ‘‘Oh, Mrs. Rowenna!” 
she exclaimed, “wouldn’t it be better for me to call 
on you? I’m all upset just now — ” 

“Tell her to come right up,” commanded Mrs. 
Craven. “I just want to get one look at that 
woman! Is she any worse’n the other one that 
borrowed your money 

Mrs. Rowenna burst into the room a moment 
later, a vision of beauty in her gorgeous clothes. 
She smiled sweetly on Mrs. Craven and wrung her 
cordially by the hand, saying: “You won’t mind if 
I talk business to your daughter for a moment 
No, don’t go away; it’s nothing very secret.” Then, 
turning to Kate, she said: “I think we’ll let up on 
the Staditorium for a while and perhaps take it up 
again later on. You see. I’m under pretty heavy 
expenses as it is, and, besides. I’m going South for a 
few weeks. There’s no sign of an engagement for 
us till next season.” 

“But your new play!” exclaimed Kate. “Won’t 
you have to begin rehearsals at once?” 

“What play?” demanded the actress. 

“Why, Mr. Floodmere told me that it was all 
arranged for you to star together — ” 

“Floodmere’s a fool!” interrupted Roberta. “Do 
288 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


you suppose Fd stop our press work with an en- 
gagement in sight? Don’t pay any attention to 
him. He has visions! By the way, we owe you 
for the past two weeks, don’t we?” 

Kate was conscious that her mother’s eyes were 
on her and that serious misgivings were creeping 
into her own mind. think it’s seven weeks in- 
stead of two,” she said, in a voice that quivered a 
little. 

‘‘Seven weeks!” screamed the actress. “Do you 
mean to tell me that Floodmere hasn’t been paying 
you regularly every week?” 

“He did at first, but then he fell behind, and I let 
the account run. I was sure he’d pay as soon as he 
had the money.” 

A moment of tense dramatic silence followed, 
during which Roberta, who was shrewd enough in 
her way, gazed steadfastly at Kate, while the latter 
returned her look with eyes of innocent, fearless 
truth, and Mrs. Craven glanced from one to the 
other, waiting for the next revelation. It was 
Roberta who broke the silence. “I might have 
known it,” she said at last. “I ought to have known 
better, but I’m through now.” 

“What do you mean.f^” asked Kate. 

“Oh, nothing, except that I’ve given Floodmere 
the money to pay you every Saturday until a 
fortnight ago!” 

And Kate saw the Floodmere of her imagination 
— Floodmere the tearful, the high-minded, the tal- 
ented — fade away, leaving only the manikin in 
faultless clothes, with tossed locks and rolling eyes. 
She sank back in her chair as the Staditorium, her 
own splendid contribution to the great mirage of 
289 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


metropolitan life, came crashing down in ruins at 
her feet. 

The telephone bell rang, and Mrs. Craven rose to 
her feet with alacrity. ‘‘Til answer it!’’ she said, as 
she took the receiver in her hand. Then, in terms of 
geniality that sounded strangely forced and un- 
natural: ‘‘Come right up! My daughter will be 
glad to see you.” 

“Who is it, mother.?” inquired Kate, timorously. 

“Your friend Mr. Floodmere,” replied the old lady. 

“I’m glad he’s taken this occasion to call,” re- 
marked Mrs. Rowenna, as she took a gold-tipped 
cigarette from a silver case and lit it, striking the 
match on the sole of her shoe. It was the first 
time that Mrs. Craven had ever seen a woman 
smoke, but in the midst of these tragic happenings, 
and with still more exciting events impending, she 
paid no attention to it. She had never met such a 
woman as this gorgeously clad Roberta before, and 
her cigarette seemed merely to complete the picture 
she presented of gay, loose, theatric life. 

Floodmere entered the room with his silk hat in 
his hand and his light overcoat over his arm. His 
face wore a smile of ineffable tenderness, but that 
disappeared when he caught sight of Roberta looking 
at him through the smoke of her cigarette. There 
was something in the cold glare of her blue eyes 
that brought quick misgivings to his mind and a 
dreadful sense of sinking to his heart. 

“Mr. Floodmere,” said Roberta, wisely coming to 
the point at once so that he would not have time 
to cook up any plausible explanations or excuses, 
“what did you do with the money I gave you to 
pay Miss Craven.?” 


290 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘‘The money — ^you gave me — ’' he stammered. 

“Yes, the money! Fifty dollars a week till a 
fortnight ago! What did you do with it?” 

“Why — ^why — I thought I paid it to her,” he 
replied, turning a pitiful look of appeal on Kate. 

“You never paid it to me,” she said. 

“And how about the five hundred you borrowed 
from her?” demanded Mrs. Craven, so fiercely that 
the actor’s knees trembled and his face turned white. 

“So he stung you for five hundred dollars more, 
did he?” said Roberta, between pulFs. “How did 
you come to let him have it?” 

“It was to buy costumes for the play that you 
and he were going to appear in!” said Kate, whose 
humiliation was now almost as great as Flood- 
mere’s. 

“What play was that? I never heard of it until 
a few minutes ago. If I’m to have a part in it and 
you’ve got the money for the wardrobe, we’re on 
the highroad to fortune!” And Roberta smiled 
grimly at him through the curling smoke. 

“It’s a splendid play!” cried the actor, grasping 
eagerly at the straw. “It had fine parts for us both. 
I felt sure that everything was all right, and so I 
permitted my friend — the dearest and purest and 
truest friend that a man ever had — to assist me in 
this enterprise. I was keeping it as a surprise for 
you, Roberta. This very day I had hoped to bring 
you the contract to sign. My God! I have slaved 
for you so unselfishly, and now — and now — ” His 
voice broke in a sob; the tears coursed down his 
cheeks; he sank into a chair and buried his face in 
his hands. A lump came into Kate’s throat, for 
she was still under the spell of the actor- voice; 

20 291 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


there was still some pity in her heart. But neither 
Mrs. Craven nor Roberta was moved by his tears. 

‘‘As soon as you are able to control yourself/’ 
said the latter, “we shall be glad to hear more 
about this splendid drama that you have secured 
for us. Are you rehearsing your part now or just 
crying?” 

“Don’t!” pleaded the actor. “Don’t make it any 
harder to bear!” It was a relief to him, and to 
Kate as well, to hear the sharp ring of the telephone. 
Any interruption was welcome now, and another 
caller would give him a chance to escape. Hope 
rose within him as he saw Mrs. Craven take the 
receiver in her hand and heard her say: “Tell the 
lady to come right up. This is my daughter’s day 
at home.” 

“Who is it, mother?” inquired Kate. 

“One of your new friends. I never heard her 
name before, but I’ll be glad to meet her. The more 
the merrier, this fine morning.” 

Floodmere raised his head. “If you have friends 
coming I had better go away and come another 
time, perhaps?” he suggested, with wistful eagerness. 

“Stay right where you are!” retorted Mrs. Craven, 
who had stationed herself before the door. “I 
enjoy your acting so much that I can’t bear to let 
you go.” 

A brief silence followed, broken only by the wails 
of the actor and Mrs. Rowenna’s sarcastic comments. 
Then the bell rang, and Mrs. Craven opened the 
door and extended a cordial hand to the visitor. 

“Come right in, Mrs. Floodmere,” she said, ami- 
ably. “You’ll find some particular friends of yours 
waiting for you.” 


292 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


The new-comer was an overdressed blonde woman 
of forty with traces of former beauty in the daintily 
colored face from which many of the lines and wrin- 
kles that speak of trouble and anxiety had been 
eliminated by massage. That she intended her 
visit to be one of stately ceremony was made ap- 
parent by her elaborate costume and the flamboyant 
hat that did double duty in attracting attention 
and shielding her face from too searching scrutiny. 
Of the kind known as “actor-chasers/’ she had suc- 
cumbed to the magic of Floodmere’s voice, rolling 
eyes, and creased trousers five years before; had 
paved the way to acquaintanceship with flowers and 
adoring letters and — the rest had been easy. After 
six months of happiness and two years of tempestu- 
ous misery, during which he had consumed half of 
her fortune in disastrous starring ventures, he had 
left her for Roberta Rowenna, and his wife had 
camped on the latter’s trail ever since in the hope 
of winning him back. 

Women of Mrs. Floodmere’s type are a potent 
influence in theatrical affairs. They fill the houses 
at matinees, buy photographs of players, invite them 
to call on them, and are not infrequently led into 
intimacies that are followed by years of bitter regret. 
They are the principal support of bad actors of the 
Floodmere type, who, ignorant of the art of the 
stage, make their appeal through a bag of mere- 
tricious tricks, chiefly of the eye and voice. 

In the upper grades of society the woman of this 
type entertains and frequently helps to support 
‘‘interesting” men who do things — paint, sing, write, 
or act; and idolizes those “intellectual actors” 
who are artistically quite as bad as the Floodmeres 

293 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


and even more pretentious. In the glossary of such 
a woman the terms “interesting’’ and “doing things” 
are not applicable to the man who irrigates a great 
desert or builds a bridge across the East River or a 
tunnel under the Hudson. Not one of these achieve- 
ments but ranks lower in her estimation than the art 
of playing badly on the flute. 

Taken collectively, the Mrs. Floodmeres and their 
counterparts of the higher grade, the “interesting” 
men, and the bad actors of the hair-and-eye school, 
as well as those of the equally worthless and tricky 
“intellectual” type, loom large in the great mirage 
of metropolitan life that is beholden by travelers 
from afar off*. 

As Mrs. Floodmere entered the room both Flood- 
mere and Roberta started in surprise, but Kate, not 
comprehending who she was, rose to greet her. 

“Did you wish to see me?” she inquired, po- 
litely. 

“I certainly do,” replied the visitor, and then 
stopped short as her eyes fell upon Floodmere and 
Mrs. Rowenna. “So you’re here, too, are you?” 
she cried, in a shrill voice, pointing to the latter. 
Then, turning a look of withering scorn on the 
actor, she added, “I was looking for you, too, and 
now I’ve got you both dead to rights.” 

Roberta recovered herself quickly and said: “If 
it’s only Mr. Floodmere you want, you can have 
him and welcome. I was afraid you were going to 
lay claim to some article of value, and I haven’t 
got many of them left — thanks to him.” 

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Floodmere, in tones of bitter 
irony, “this other lady would object to letting him 
go? I realize, of course, that both of you are entitled 
294 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


to first consideration. Fm nothing but his wife, 
so of course I don’t count.” 

“His wife!” exclaimed Kate, overwhelmed by a 
sudden realization of her own supreme folly. 

“Yes, his wife!” replied Mrs. Floodmere. “I 
suppose he never thought it worth while to mention 
such a little encumbrance as that.?” 

“He never told me he was married,” said Kate, 
piteously. 

“No!” snapped the other; “that’s a subject he 
seldom mentions when he’s making love to other 
women.” 

“He never made love to me!” exclaimed Kate, 
indignantly. 

“God knows that she speaks the truth!” said 
Floodmere, turning on the tap from his tank of 
“repressed emotion.” 

His wife sniffed contemptuously and then turned 
to Mrs. Rowenna, who had recovered her composure 
and was lighting a fresh cigarette. “I suppose you 
didn’t know he had a wife, either?” 

“If you’re his wife, why don’t you take him away 
with you?” she asked, placidly. “I’m sure I don’t 
want him, and I don’t think anybody else does, 
either. Go on and take him away as soon as 
ever you please.” 

“Thank you! I don’t want any of your leavings. 
If he ain’t good enough for a common hussy he 
ain’t good enough for me. You can have him, and 
welcome!” 

Mrs. Rowenna suddenly sat bolt upright in her 
chair. “Did you say ‘common hussy’ to me?” she 
demanded, in a voice of fierce menace. 

“I certainly did,” retorted the actor’s wife, a 
295 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


belligerent fire in her eye that caused the other to 
quail. “What did you think I said.?’’ 

“ Good Gawd !” moaned Roberta, piteously. “What 
would my dear old mother have said if she could 
have lived to hear that.?” 

“Like as not she’d say she’d known it herself 
all along!” said Mrs. Floodmere; and then, as Ro- 
berta buried her face in her hands, she turned to 
Kate. “Well, young woman, perhaps you’d like 
to keep this precious husband of mine.? Nobody 
else seems to want him.” 

“You forget, madam,” said Kate, with dignity, 
“that I have only known your husband in a business 
way, and — ” 

“Business!” snorted the other. “He’s been call- 
ing on you every afternoon for the last six weeks! 
I suppose you’ll tell me he was talking business to 
you all that time! What sort of business was it. 
I’d like to ask — if it’s not impertinent.? Of course. 
I’m only his lawful wedded wife, so I don’t want 
to butt in on any little intimacies he may have 
with you other ladies.” 

During this exciting colloquy no one had paid 
the slightest attention to Mrs. Craven, who had 
remained in the background quietly listening and 
observing. Now she lifted her voice for the first 
time. “The sort of business he had was bor- 
rowing money from her,” she remarked, in even 
tones. 

“Is that all he got from you?” asked Mrs. Flood- 
mere. “Why didn’t you let him have your jewels, 
too.?” 

“Because she hasn’t any,” replied Mrs. Craven. 

“That’s a perfectly good reason. It’s a pity she 
296 


THE GREAT M.I R A G E 


hadn’t a necklace, so he could take it out to get 
mended the same as he did mine.” 

It was Roberta who broke in now, and her words 
were addressed to Kate Craven, and in the raucous 
tones that she employed when angry. “And so 
he’s been making love to you, too, has he? And 
all the time you were pretending to be my friend 
and getting money out of me for my press work you 
were trying to win Walter away from me. Gawd! 
Ain’t it enough to have my child taken away from 
me and my home broken up, but you must rob me 
of the man I love — the only man I ever did love?” 

She sank back in her chair and burst into a fit of 
hysterical weeping. Floodmere sprang to her side 
and placed his arms about her as if to protect her 
from assault. 

“Attack me as you will!” he cried, rolling his eyes 
about the room in a splendid frenzy; “strike me, 
now that I’m down, but spare her!” He glared 
fiercely at both Mrs. Craven and her daughter, but 
was careful to avoid the angry gaze of his wife. 

“Save me, darling! Save me from that woman!” 
sobbed Roberta, clinging to him. “Take me away 
from this dreadful place.” 

Floodmere raised the sobbing woman to her feet 
and drew his arm affectionately about her waist. 
Always a firm believer in the great theatrical value 
of a good exit, he saw a chance for one now, and so, 
clutching his hat and overcoat with his left hand, 
he propelled Roberta gently toward the door. “Calm 
yourself,” he murmured. “You are overwrought 
now, but you will be better once you gain the fresh 
air. A ride through the Park will do you a world 
of good.” 


297 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Roberta raised her tear-stained face and glared 
at Kate. ‘‘Viper!'' she hissed. “I little thought 
that you would be the one to violate the sanctity of 
my home. But you have failed. He belongs to me! 
To me! Do you hear that — ingrate that you are?" 

Still gently leading the actress, Floodmere had al- 
most reached the door when his wife threw herself 
before the retreating pair with an hysterical shriek. 
“Would you rob me of my husband before my 
very eyes? Walter! Walter! Do you hear me, 
Walter? I say you shall not go with that woman!" 

“For God's sake, don't make a scene! Have 
some consideration for these ladies," implored the 
actor. “Let me take her home, and we will meet 
later. It will all come out right in the end." 

“You sha'n't leave this flat with that creature in 
your arms!" sobbed the stricken wife, and then 
Mrs. Craven flung open the door and exclaimed in 
tones that said she was not to be trifled with: 

“Get out of here, every one of you miserable crit- 
ters, and don’t one of you ever show your face here 
again!" 

“For God's sake, don't let her make a scene! 
Keep her till we can get out of the building!" begged 
Floodmere, as he skipped across the threshold, drag- 
ging Roberta with him. 

“I'll give you just two minutes," replied Mrs. 
Craven, as she closed the door behind him and stood 
guard before it. “At the end of that time," she 
added, addressing Mrs. Floodmere, “you'll go, too; 
and, mind you, don’t make a, speck of noise till you 
get outside the house! Then you can holler and 
yell all you’ve a mind to." 

After the last of the trio of “critters" had de- 
agS 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


parted the old lady threw open all the windows, 
saying, ‘‘It’s high time we let some fresh air into 
this room!” It was all the comment she made. 
None other was needed. Another of the walls of 
the great mirage had crumbled, and Kate sat gazing 
with amazed eyes at the dark clouds of reality 
beyond. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


B ARSHFIELD’S arrival at the Megaphone office 
was an episode of almost sensational theatrical- 
ism. He had been careful not to permit the moment 
of his sailing to reach the ears of any one save Macy 
and Vanderlip, knowing well that motives of self- 
interest would prevent them from spreading the 
tidings. In Park Row special information of this 
sort is something more than a mere secret. It is a 
tangible asset that may be converted into a weapon 
of offense or defense. 

Consequently the sudden appearance of Majesty 
at the door of his own private office was rendered 
doubly spectacular by the fact that he found Tops 
and the smallest of the office-boys shooting craps 
in the hall. While the dean of the messengers’ 
corps fumbled with trembling fingers at the lock of 
the throne-room door his opponent gathered the 
pennies from the floor and sped away to the city- 
room, gasping out the news as he ran: “De boss 
is back!” 

Barshfield arrived at twelve o’clock, or ‘‘high 
noon,” as it is known in the society reporter’s lexi- 
con, and until three remained in close consultation, 
first with Vanderlip, then with Macy, then with 
both. Meanwhile Tops sat outside the door wiping 
the sweat of apprehension from his brow and leaping 
from his seat at every sound of the bell. And the 
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city-room held its breath while those clothed with a 
little brief authority — authority is seldom anything 
else in Park Row — simulated exuberant activity and 
close attention to business. He to whom the duties 
of city editor had been delegated by Macy did his 
best to confirm the popular belief that his coat-tails 
were fitted with an appliance that kept them ex- 
tended horizontally while their possessor was in 
motion. The only man in the entire office who re- 
mained in ignorance of the day’s stupendous hap- 
pening was Penfield, whose isolation from his fellow- 
workers was so complete that no one even thought 
of telling him. Nor were there wanting those who 
hoped that his enlightenment would take the form 
of disaster. 

At one o’clock Penfield sallied forth to luncheon 
at the house of Mrs. Chilton-Smythe, who had just 
had some new photographs taken. Tops cast an 
evil eye upon him as he passed, a rose in his button- 
hole, his hat slightly cocked on one side, his cane 
swinging gaily as he walked. 

^‘There’s a guy that won’t be in the movies much 
longer,” remarked the senior office-boy to his as- 
sistant. 

“Nor in the talkies neither,” rejoined the other, 
with prophetic voice. 

At half past three Penfield returned, still jaunty 
and debonaire, and humming a blithe tune as he 
swung his cane. He bore with him one of his host- 
ess’s latest photographs, together with memoranda 
for an article, which he proposed to write himself, 
about her most recent activities on behalf of the 
downtrodden of her sex, and in which she was to 
figure as the “Joan of Arc” of something or other. 

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‘‘De boss wants to see you right away in his 
office; he’s sent for you tree times,” said the boy, 
in his habitually sullen tone. 

“What boss? I didn’t know I had one,” replied 
the Sunday editor, as he seated himself at his desk. 
“If it’s Mr. Vanderlip, you can tell him that I shall 
be glad to see him here any time between now and 
five o’clock,” he added, complacently. 

“’Tain’t Mr. Vanderlip; it’s Mr. Barshfield,” said 
the boy, eying him sharply. 

“Mr. Barshfield? Mr. Barshfield’s in Paris!” ex- 
claimed Penfield, starting from his seat and fixing 
his dead black eyes on the boy’s face. 

The other returned his glance, unabashed, and 
said doggedly: “Mebbe he come over in a flyin’- 
machine. Anyway, he’s in his office now. Tops seen 
him when he come in.” 

The Sunday editor started at once, and the boy 
grinned as he saw him take the flower from his 
buttonhole and cast it on the floor. Two minutes 
later the city-room knew that he had been sent for, 
and wide and deep were the speculations as to his 
fate, for it was commonly known that Vanderlip and 
Macy had long since marked him for destruction. 

Before summoning Penfield the owner of the 
Megaphone had sent for that trusty barometer of 
business, the circulation manager, and obtained from 
him an exact statement of the condition of the 
Sunday issue. The figures showed a steady decrease 
in sales from the moment that Penfield assumed 
control. And as the quiet little old Irishman who 
serves as high priest at the altar where Barshfield 
prostrates himself before the great god Circulation 
gave his damning testimony he knew from the look 
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in his employer’s face that Penfield’s doom was 
sealed. And his heart became glad. 

Barshfield did not discharge Penfield from his 
employ. He did something that was far worse. He 
relieved him of the responsibility of the Sunday 
issue and bade him return to the city department and 
report to Mr. Macy. It was all done quickly and 
with the cold, punctilious courtesy that marks 
Barshfield’s most bitter and dangerous moods. Pen- 
field experienced a shock as sharp and sudden as if 
he had lost his head instead of his job. At his 
employer’s polite nod of dismissal he left the room 
without a word. Indeed, it never occurred to him 
to utter a word of remonstrance or explanation or 
to crave mercy. As well expect a head to rear itself 
above the edge of the basket and plead with the 
executioner to be put back again on the bleeding 
trunk. 

As he made his way through the hall to his own 
office he was conscious of the sharp scrutiny of 
many pairs of eyes. He saw malevolence in the 
look that Tops gave him — ^Tops, the crap-shooter, 
whose own head had barely escaped the block! — 
and as he passed the open door of the city-room it 
seemed to his disordered fancy that myriad heads 
were raised to behold him in the moment of his 
disgrace. Everywhere he could see mocking eyes 
and sneering faces. Did the whole office know 
what had happened? Nonsense! It was only his 
imagination. And )^et when he entered his own 
office his boy said, ‘‘Do you want me to help move 
your things, Mr. Penfield?” 

The tidings had indeed spread with marvelous 
celerity. Tops, with his highly trained ear at the 

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keyhole, had given the word to his junior, and the 
latter had darted off to carry the news throughout 
the building. 

For some time Penfield sat in his revolving-chair 
before his handsome roll-top desk, trying to recon- 
struct himself under the conditions that had been 
so unexpectedly forced upon him. His whole life 
in New York seemed to sweep past him as he sat 
there. He saw himself trudging the pavements for 
the first time, a raw country reporter on his way to 
the Megaphone building. Step by step he went over 
in memory his rapid rise to power in Park Row and 
what he still fondly imagined was social position. 
Surely it was something for this country reporter 
of yesterday to be now on cordial terms with such 
distinguished women as Carolyn Smithers and Mrs. 
Chilton-Smy the “At least,’* he muttered to him- 
self, “that is something they can’t take away from 
me — my social position.” 

He remembered Mrs. Chilton-Smythe’s portrait 
and resolved that he would keep it himself. Mr. 
Barshfield would soon learn that it was not every 
one who could secure the privilege of reproducing 
the latest photograph of such a distinguished social 
leader. 

A timid knock on the door aroused him from his 
reverie, and Lady Clara came toward him with both 
hands outstretched and tears of sympathy in her 
kindly eyes. Poor Lady Clara, whom he had always 
despised until he could make use of her, was the 
only friend he had left. Not even the fact that he 
was no longer able to do her favors could make this 
remarkable woman forget what she had received at 
his hands. 


,304 


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“Oh, Mr. PenfieldT’ she exclaimed, as she took 
both his limp hands in hers. “Fve just heard the 
news, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am! It was 
you who gave me my job and kept it for me, and 
now anything that I’ve got is yours.” 

For almost the first time in his life Penfield was 
deeply touched. The tears came into his eyes — 
those hard, brassy, deep black eyes that Mrs. 
Craven had always hated — and he drew Lady Clara 
toward him and gently kissed her forehead. 

Penfield having been disposed of, the next question 
that presented itself to Barshfield for consideration 
was that of a suitable successor. Every one of the 
well-known figureheads of Park Row was suggested 
in turn by his two henchmen, and yet he continued 
to shake his head thoughtfully. At six o’clock he 
glanced at his watch and rose to go. “We can leave 
it till next week,” he said, “but we ought to have 
some clever woman to look after the fashions and 
all that. Is there any one on the staff that can do it?” 

At this moment Macy remembered Kate Craven, 
who had been a sort of thorn in the side of his 
conscience ever since he had felt compelled to sacri- 
fice her to the demands of office politics. 

“Suppose we get Miss Craven back again,” he 
suggested. 

“Why, I thought she was so thick with Penfield — 
and on the quiet, tool” said Barshfield, with a damn- 
ing suspicion of something underhand — he did not 
know exactly what. 

“You needn’t be afraid on that score,” rejoined 
the city editor. “She’s never forgiven him for throw- 
ing her down as he did. She’s a very clever little 
woman, and I’ve found out that a great many of 

30s 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


the ideas that Penfield got the credit for were really 
hers/’ 

“Well, have her come here to-morrow afternoon,” 
were Barshfield’s parting words. 

The events described in this chapter took place 
on the day after the sensational exit from Kate 
Craven’s life of Walter Floodmere. It was Lady 
Clara who brought the news to the flat, coming 
home an hour earlier than usual and carrying also 
a budget of office comment and speculation. 

“It seems that his death-warrant was signed and 
sealed long ago, and I was the only one that never 
suspected it!” she exclaimed, excitedly. “Of course 
I knew that Macy and Vanderlip had it in for him 
ever since the boss began taking notice of him, but 
I’d no idea they’d get the knife into him as quick 
as they have. I supposed he was still sitting among 
the mighty on the top steps of the throne. How 
else would he be able to pay you fifty bones a week 
just for giving him ideas and writing one or two 
stories.? Does that go on, or do you think your head 
will fall, too?” 

“I think my head must have fallen when his did, 
though I didn’t feel the knife parting the vertebrae,” 
answered Kate, in a voice of calm despair. Her 
financial support had been swept from under her — 
vanished in company with the Staditorium and the 
money she had lent to Floodmere. 

“I declare that’s too bad,” said Lady Clara, the 
ready tears of sympathy gathering in her eyes. 
“I’d give anything to have you back on my page, 
but the Lord only knows how long I’m going to 
hold my own job. Everybody’s sitting tight and 
holding on to their desks, and Dan Farley tells me 
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it looks like a general shake-up. He’s been through 
enough of them to know when he sees one coming.” 

“On what grounds did Mr. Barshfield discharge 
Penfield?” asked Kate. 

“His special features were no good, and the circu- 
lation went down. He had a lot of good woman’s 
stuff, but somehow it didn’t seem to go. I gave him 
a few ideas myself, but he wasn’t able to do anything 
with them. They tell me that lots of women stopped 
taking the Megaphone because they didn’t like his 
women’s features.” 

“Thank you,” remarked Kate; “that’s the first 
good news I’ve heard to-day. I thought some of 
those features would do the business.” 

There was a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes that 
Lady Clara did not understand. But after the 
fashion-writer had retired to her room to “put on 
something loose” Mrs. Craven asked her daughter 
what she had meant, and Kate promptly explained 
the manner in which she had contributed to Pen- 
field’s downfall by offering suggestions that she knew 
were worse than worthless and would pave the way 
to his ruin. “I did it because I wanted to get even 
with him for what he did to me,” she said, as she 
brought her tale of just vengeance to a close. “And 
by doing it I’ve learned something that may come 
in handy one of these days. I’ve learned that 
women don’t read this stuff that goes into the 
women’s pages. They hate it just as much as I did 
while I was writing it. But I got paid for writing 
it, and they pay for the privilege of reading it.” 

For a moment Mrs. Craven regarded her daughter 
thoughtfully. “I’m glad you’ve learned something 
since you came to New York, even if it’s nothing 

307 


21 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


more than what I told you when you came away,’’ 
she said, at last. ‘‘And I’m more than glad that you 
had a hand in putting that miserable critter Pen- 
field where he belongs. It makes my mind a little 
easier to think of leaving you here to shift for your- 
self. I suppose you’d rather stop here and go along 
with your career, as you call it, than go back to 
Graytown with me?” 

“I’ll have to stay, mother, until my money gives 
out,” replied Kate. “I don’t feel like owning myself 
beaten just because I’ve trusted the wrong people. 
I can hang on for a little while longer and do the 
best I can. Very likely something will turn up. 
An)rway, I’ve got an education since I came here, 
but it’s cost me a pretty penny.” 

“Education usually does come high, especially to 
those who don’t know enough to take it when it’s 
offered them for nothing,” said the elder woman. 
“Well, you’ve had your education, and I’m willing 
to pay for it out of the money I’ve been putting 
aside for you, dollar by dollar, ever since you were 
born. There’s pretty nigh a thousand dollars to 
your credit in the Graytown bank, and you can 
draw on it if you need to. That’s what it was put 
there for — to pay for your education.” 

A sudden realization of the years of love and self- 
sacrifice that lay behind this gift stirred Kate Cra- 
ven’s soul to its utmost depths. What must it have 
meant to this taciturn, undemonstrative woman to 
put away such a sum, bit by bit, without permitting 
her daughter to even guess of its existence! How 
could she ever repay her? And yet this new debt 
was nothing in comparison with what she owed for 
the long years of watchful care, of wise counsel, of 
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deep love. For the first time in her life she began 
to have an idea of the far-reaching power of that 
which, more than anything else, shapes human des- 
tinies. She could not utter a word. No mere words 
would express what she felt at this supreme moment. 
She went to her mother, seated herself in her lap, 
threw her arms about her neck, and buried her face 
in her bosom. Her whole form was shaken with 
her tempestuous sobbing. 

‘‘There, there, darling,’^ crooned her mother, 
soothingly, remembering how Kate had often thrown 
herself into her arms in just this way and sobbed 
out her childish woes. There were tears now on the 
wrinkled cheeks as well as on the smooth ones. 
Mother and daughter had come together again in 
mutual love and confidence, never to be parted. 
Lady Clara, opening her door, saw them thus en- 
gaged and went quickly back into her room. 

While the three women were dining a boy appeared 
with Mr. Macy’s card on which was penciled a re- 
quest that Kate would give him a few moments’ 
private conversation. Greatly wondering, she went 
down and saw him for the first time since he had 
dismissed her from the paper. And if his visit had 
surprised her, how much greater her amazement 
when the city editor said: “How would you like 
to come back to the Megaphone^ Miss Craven? I 
think I can arrange it for you.” 

“I don’t know; I never thought of such a thing,” 
she faltered. 

“I was speaking about you to Mr. Barshfield 
to-day,” continued Macy, “and if you will come 
down to the office to-morrow afternoon I will see 
what can be done. I have always felt that an in- 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


justice was done you and I shall be very glad to do 
anything in my power to make things right. That 
is why I have come to see you instead of writing or 
trying to talk to you over the telephone. If you have 
any reason for not wishing to come please tell me now.” 

All this was the truth, but not all of the truth. 
Macy was sincere in his wish to right a wrong, but he 
was also anxious to attach Kate to his own service, 
believing her capable of unswerving loyalty and deep 
gratitude. 

‘T understand,” said Kate, after a moment’s 
hesitation, ‘That Mr. Penfield has been discharged.” 

“Discharged!” exclaimed Macy. “Not at all! 
He has merely been transferred from the Sunday to 
the city department.” 

“What do you think will be the next step in the 
line of promotion ?” inquired Kate, with a twinkle in 
her eye that brought an answering grin to the other’s 
face. 

He made no further reply to her inquiry, but went 
on to explain the work required of her and to exact 
her promise to call the following day, a promise she 
gave reluctantly and only through sheer necessity. 
The thought of taking up her old work on the 
Woman’s Page was repellant to her. The great 
mirage that had lured her to the city had dissolved 
and she was beginning to see clearly the real life of 
the town. Lady Clara still believed in what she 
was doing. Her eyes would never behold the truth. 
But to go on day after day, presenting false views of 
life, keeping alive the illusion of the mirage and 
perhaps tempting thousands of young men and 
women to hurry on toward the city of mists and 
dreams— how could she possibly do it? 

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All this passed through Kate’s mind after Macy 
had gone and while she was ascending in the elevator 
to her own rooms. She said nothing to either her 
mother or Lady Clara of the purport of the city 
editor’s call, but that night after the others had 
gone to bed she sat brooding before the gas-log. 
Reasons why she should not accept Macy’s offer 
came crowding in upon her thick and fast, and 
one of those that thrust itself upon her mind with 
tireless persistency was Telford. She did not mind 
encountering Penfield, whom but a few months ago 
she had prayed that she might never see again, but 
she could not bear the thought of meeting the man 
who had told her the plain truth. She had already 
banished Floodmere, if not from her mind, at least 
from her heart, but Telford’s outspoken contempt 
for him still rankled in her memory. For Kate 
Craven was, after all, essentially feminine in her 
emotions and mental make-up. 

Still brooding, she reached the point where she 
resolved that under no circumstances would she 
accept Macy’s offer, and then the money necessity 
rose up like a stone wall before her eyes and shut 
out all minor considerations from her sight. After 
all, there would be no harm in going to see Barshfield 
and hearing what he had to say; and with this re- 
solve in her mind she made up the cot on which she 
slept during her mother’s visit and went to bed. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


l^EWS of the fall of Penfield swept through the 

^ great whispering-gallery of Park Row. Borne 
from mouth to mouth it penetrated every newspaper 
office and saloon. It startled the Brasserie of Hard 
Times from its long afternoon lethargy between 
drinks and set the tongues to buzzing in every hen- 
coop. Prominent journalists who seldom deigned 
to cross the threshold of the Brasserie now hur- 
ried to that unequaled center of intelligence and 
‘‘bought’’ recklessly that they might not only learn 
the news, but also gather the results of speculative 
surmise, a school of imaginative thought in which 
the frequenters of the place excel. The politicians 
of the different offices — each staff* has its Macy and 
its Vanderlip — looked grave and wondered where 
the deposed favorite would seek employment. More 
than one brain, wise in political trickery, was busy 
that afternoon with schemes to defeat any project 
he might entertain. To more than one newspaper- 
owner was imparted a hint of this man’s power for 
evil. 

For Penfield had acquired a great reputation as 
an office politician of extraordinary cunning, largely 
based on the fact that Macy and Vanderlip had been 
forced to make common cause against him. As a mat- 
ter of fact, he was not a politician, but a sycophant 
seeking only to ingratiate himself with those above 
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him and too ignorant in the ways of the world to 
realize the value of a loyal following among his 
equals and those beneath him. And now, at the 
moment when his name was on every tongue in 
Park Row, he was sitting before his roll-top desk, 
stunned by the sudden news of his fall, and with 
none, save poor Lady Clara, to oflFer a word of regret 
or sympathy. As the shadows of night descended on 
him his sense of loneliness, of utter isolation from 
the little world in which he had but an hour before 
regarded himself as a personage of no small im- 
portance, came upon him with crushing force. For 
almost the first time in his life the value of human 
love and companionship loomed large in his mind. 
It would have lifted a weight from his load of grief 
and mortification had the office-boy come in to say 
that he was sorry he was going. 

It was in a much softened mood that he addressed 
himself to the last official act of his reign. He wrote 
a short letter to Kate, inclosing his check for a full 
week’s salary and thanking her for the loyal zeal that 
she had shown him. ‘‘My head has been cut off,” 
he said, “and, of course, yours falls, too, but I 
sha’n’t forget what I owe you. Nor shall I ever for- 
give myself for not playing fair with you. Some 
day, perhaps, I shall have a chance to prove to you 
that I mean what I say.” 

It was the least selfish letter that Kate had ever 
received from him, and the tears sprang to her eyes 
as she read it carefully through a second time. 
There was something like remorse in her heart, too, 
as she remembered how she had helped to bring 
about his downfall. 

It was not until long after dark that he closed his 

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THE GREAT MIRA G E 


desk and made his way out into the street. As he 
walked slowly up Broadway there came to him the 
comforting reflection that at least he was not in 
danger of starvation, as he had banked more than 
two thousand dollars from his salary and there was at 
least a hundred and fifty more in his pocket. And 
yet he was almost friendless in the city that had 
yielded him such a good living. Suddenly there 
rose up in his mind the memory of the survivor of 
another shipwreck finding the gold coins cast upon 
the beach and realizing their utter worthlessness to 
him in his sorry plight. And he saw the same 
castaway’s face shining with joy as he found the 
print of a naked human foot on the sands of his 
desert island. If he himself could only find the 
footprint of a faithful Man Friday in the desert he 
was traversing to-night! 

A well-worn simile, perhaps, but let us not forget 
that Robinson Crusoe was one of the few great books 
that Penfield had ever read. 

Kate Craven arrived at the Megaphone office 
at the appointed hour and was cordially received by 
Macy, who quickly ushered her into the royal pres- 
ence and then quietly withdrew. The noiseless 
footfall is one of the signs by which an adroit office 
politician may always be known. 

Barshfield greeted her with the courtesy for which 
he has always been famed, drew up a chair for her, 
and said: “I have been hoping. Miss Craven, that 
you would care to come back to us. There’s plenty 
of work for you on the Sunday page, the sort of work 
that you do very well.” 

‘‘What sort of work?” she asked, timidly. 

“Just the sort that you did before — the usual 

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woman’s stuff. We intend to run two or three pages 
of it on Sunday.” 

“Fm afraid I can’t do any more woman’s stuff,” 
she replied, with a shake of her pretty head that 
caught Barshfield’s eye and for a moment enchained 
his volatile fancy. 

‘‘Why not?” he inquired, pleasantly. “Not so 
very long ago you were doing it very well.” 

“That was because I believed in it. I don’t any 
more, and Fm afraid it would be impossible for me 
to do it now. If there is any other sort of work for 
me I should be glad to try it, for I need the money.” 

The proprietor of the Megaphone gazed in wonder 
at the girl who thought she could no longer write 
woman’s stuff. In all the years of his ownership he 
had never met any one who did not feel qualified 
to turn out this favorite brand of Park Row fiction 
in quantities to suit the purchaser. If a farmer had 
confessed to him his inability to raise potatoes his 
surprise would not have been greater. For a moment 
that seemed to Kate interminably long he sat with 
his keen eyes fixed upon this unique specimen of her 
sex. 

“I wish you would tell me exactly what you 
mean,” he said at last, and there was a note of 
kindly encouragement in his words that gave her 
courage to speak her mind. 

“I think the system is all wrong,” she replied. 
“Fm quite sure that what is called ‘woman’s stuff’ 
does not appeal to the average woman. Of course I 
know that Fm going against all newspaper tradition 
and it probably sounds conceited, but I have good 
reason to know that I am right. I proved it at the 
expense of the Megaphone, and I think it only fair 

315 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


that I should confess the part I played in bringing 
about Mr. Penfield’s downfall.” 

She paused a moment, her face flushed and her 
eyes fixed on the floor. It was awkward to have 
to tell the story of her treachery, but since her 
mother’s arrival the conscience that she had inherited 
from her New England ancestry had begun to trouble 
her and she resolved that she would not re-enter 
Barshfield’s employ without making a clean breast 
of everything. With a kindly word and a nod he 
bade her continue. 

‘‘As you probably know,” she went on, raising her 
clear, truthful eyes and looking him squarely in the 
face, “Mr. Penfield went back on me at the very 
moment when he ought to have shown himself my 
friend. He saved himself, but I was discharged, and 
I can tell you I didn’t feel very pleasantly toward 
him. But I bided my time, and before long he 
found out that he needed me to help him, as I always 
had, ever since the days when he was working on a 
country paper in our old home town. He wanted 
ideas for the Sunday paper and he was willing to 
pay for them. That was my chance to get even. 
I’m almost ashamed to tell it, but I deliberately sent 
in every idea I could think of that would hurt the 
circulation. It was woman’s stuff he said he wanted, 
and I gave it to him. I just picked out everything 
I could think of that would make women angry. I 
suppose you saw that series about the female rela- 
tives of the President? Well, that was my idea. 
Nothing makes the average woman madder than 
to see the President’s relatives blossom out like royal 
princesses and preside at meetings and visit the night 
court and express their opinions on all sorts of topics,” 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“But/’ interrupted Barshfield, “women are surely 
interested in the doings of other women! If not, 
there would be no use in running a page for their 
especial benefit.” 

“They’re interested in real public women like 
actresses and authors, but not in those who were 
nobodies yesterday and will be nobodies again at the 
end of four years.” 

“How about society women? Are they interested 
in them?” inquired Barshfield. 

“Yes, if they’re rich, but not otherwise,” answered 
Kate. “That’s another thing I was going to tell 
you about. You may have noticed those stories 
about society leaders who made their own hats? 
Well, I always contrived to show that they lived in 
small flats and were obliged to economize. Every 
woman turned up her nose at the idea of a society 
leader who was obliged to economize. No woman 
can really lead society in a hat of her own making. 
She must buy at least one a week and pay a hundred 
dollars apiece for them. A really interesting series 
of articles could be made about society leaders who 
never wear the same dress or the same hat twice.” 

Kate stopped short in her discourse, appalled at 
the freedom of her speech and amazed at the deep 
interest visible in the face of Barshfield. Seldom 
in all his experience as a Park Row autocrat had 
one of his subjects talked to him as truthfully and 
frankly as this pretty little pawn who had been so 
ruthlessly swept from the board as a warning to 
others. She was teaching him something about his 
own business now and he was an apt pupil, not only 
absorbing everything she told him, but eager for 
more. 


317 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


‘^And how about these women who head great 
movements in behalf of their sex?’’ he inquired. 
‘‘Are they interesting to other women?” 

“Certainly, if they have plenty of new hats and 
things,” replied Kate, confidently. 

Barshfield smiled as he recalled her own descrip- 
tion of the Chilton-Smythe toque at the Chicago 
convention, and the fashion that it had set. He 
nodded encouragingly to his young instructor, and 
she went on. 

“My mother always told me that the early move- 
ment in favor of what was then called ‘Women’s 
Rights’ was killed by the bloomers. That hideous 
style of dress became identified with the cause — in 
which she herself always believed — and aroused the 
ridicule of men and the antipathy of women. 
The Suffragist of to-day is, generally speaking, a 
well-dressed woman, and that is one reason why the 
cause is gaining ground. Any woman’s movement 
that falls into the hands of a lot of frumps is sure to 
die a quick death. It’s not so much the brain as it 
is the hat that shelters it that commands the- con- 
fidence of women — that is to say, of the women who 
pore over fashion columns.” 

“Then you don’t believe in appealing to women’s 
brains?” inquired Barshfield. 

“I certainly do,” replied Kate, promptly, “but 
not on the society page. That should be run for the 
believers in hats. Outside of that I think that what 
we call ‘woman’s stuff’ should be addressed to intel- 
ligent women, and there are more of them than the 
Sunday editors have any idea of. Moreover, there 
is such a thing as the feminine point of view, which 
is quite different from that of a man’s, and I think it 
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would pay s6me newspaper to take cognizance of it. 
For example, women are the great buyers of books, 
especially fiction, and their tastes are not those of 
men. A weekly article on current fiction written by 
a woman who is in thorough sympathy with her sex 
would interest women enormously. It would help 
the sale of books, too, and consequently bring ad- 
vertising. I think a theatrical story run on the same 
plan would pay well, too.” 

‘‘What about the recipes and dress -patterns?’’ 
inquired Barshfield. 

“That reminds me that I have another confession 
to make,” replied Kate. “You will notice that in the 
daily bill of fare I always saved on the luncheon, 
making it as cheap and nasty as possible. That is 
the meal that the women and children eat alone, as 
a rule, and women don’t like the idea of eating 
scraps whenever the man of the house is away. As 
to the fashions, I always tried to show how little a 
woman could dress on, and that notion is decidedly 
unpopular with my sex. It gives their husbands a 
chance to grumble at their bills. In short, I did 
everything I could to induce women to stop the 
Megaphone and take some other Sunday paper in 
its stead. I’m half ashamed of it now, especially if 
you have lost by it, but I’d been treated very badly 
and I wanted to get even, just as if I’d been a man. 
We women are supposed to turn the other cheek or 
take it out in crying, but once in a while the worm 
will turn. Then that series showing how money 
could be saved in every family by dressing the chil- 
dren poorly and sending them to the public schools. 
Women don’t want to have their children, whom 
they believe to be the most wonderful in the world, 

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brought down to the common level and sent to 
schools where they’ll learn bad language. The 
minute the women begin to hide the paper for fear 
their husbands will see it the circulation will begin 
to run down.” 

For a few moments the owner of the Megaphone 
sat lost in thought. Never before had ideas so 
radically opposed to the most revered traditions of 
Park Row been presented to him. In all his en- 
deavors to impart zest and novelty to his Woman’s 
Page it had never occurred either to himself or to any 
of his satellites to try an infusion of wit or some other 
form of brain-power. Kate Craven’s outspoken 
words had made a deep impression on him. She 
had evidently been a close observer during her term 
of apprenticeship in his office. Could it be that her 
theories were right. ^ And had she the ability to put 
them into practical form.f* There was something in 
her that not only pleased his eye — always a coldly 
critical one where women were concerned — but also 
inspired his confidence. It might be that in her 
he had made a good ‘‘find” of the sort that news- 
paper -owners are always looking for — some one 
whose brains could make the fires under his cook- 
shop burn with a brighter glow. At any rate, the 
experiment was worth trying. 

“How would you like to try your hand at this 
unusual work of appealing to the feminine brain?” 
he said at last. 

“I should like it very much,” replied Kate, 
promptly, “but please don’t ask me to do the sort 
of thing I did before. I should fail if I tried to do it, 
now that I’ve got my eyes open.” 

An arrangement was quickly made between the 
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two, and then Barshfield courteously opened the 
door for Kate and proceeded to Vanderlip's room, 
where he found his two lieutenants in quiet, earnest 
communion. Both hastened to signify their hearty 
approval of his act, and then, with a significant look 
at his associate, Vanderlip remarked in his gentle 
voice that he thought the time had come for a 
substantial recognition on the part of their employer 
of the services that they had rendered him during 
long years of zeal, discretion, and loyalty. 

Before replying the owner of the Megaphone took 
off his glasses, polished them carefully and replaced 
them on his nose, thus gaining a moment for rapid 
thought, for he knew at once that his prime ministers, 
whom he had for years ‘‘played off,” the one against 
the other, with marvelous skill, had united to wrest 
from his grasp the scepter of absolute authority. 
Then he turned a look of steely, searching inquiry on 
the face of each and asked them what they wanted. 

“More money,’’ said Vanderlip, laconically. 

Barshfield always met important crises in his af- 
fairs with a cigarette between his lips, believing that 
the curling smoke helped to obscure his features, 
though it did not in the least impair his own vision. 
He lighted one now and puffed at it before saying 
in clear, impassive tones: “I was not aware that I 
had treated you in a niggardly manner. Both of 
you have drawn salaries which I believe are larger 
than those paid in other offices for work similar to 
yours.” 

“Quite true,” said Vanderlip, the smooth-spoken. 
“Your treatment of us in the past leaves us nothing 
to complain of. It is the future that we are thinking 
of now. The paper is growing in circulation, influ- 
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ence, and profits and our responsibilities are grow- 
ing, too, so it seems — 

“What salaries do you want?’’ demanded Barsh- 
field, and there was a metallic ring in his voice that 
did not pass unnoticed. 

“Our salaries are quite fair,” said Macy. “We 
only thought that the time had come for an alotment 
of a few more shares of the stock.” 

The Megaphone is published by a stock company 
of one thousand shares, of which each of the prime 
ministers held two for legal reasons. It was their 
belief — gently expressed by Vanderlip — that these 
holdings should be increased to the extent of a hun- 
dred shares apiece. Barshfield’s face wore its usual 
inscrutable mask as he listened. The voice that he 
heard was of velvet, but the hands that he felt at his 
throat were of tempered steel. It had come upon 
him at last — that which his father had warned him 
against and of which he had lived in almost daily 
expectation ever since he ascended the throne. He 
remembered now how the feudal barons compelled 
King John to grant the Magna Charta. A faint 
smile, which puzzled the two men, watching him 
narrowly to read the thoughts behind those cold 
eyes, flitted across his face as the fantastic thought 
came to him that sometime in the future the com- 
mons of the city-room, the hen-coop, and the busi- 
ness office might assert their rights and force from 
these two barons something of the power that they 
were now seeking to wrest from him. 

The crisis had come at last and found him weary 
of the great burden of responsibility and anxiety 
that he had carried for so many years. His first 
flame of indignation was already disappearing before 
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2i feeling of profound relief as of one who seeks rest 
after a long day’s toil. His first thought had been 
to discharge both men and take up the reins of power 
as they fell from their hands, but the thought of all 
that that meant in trouble and vexation, of the 
squabbles of minor office politicians and the probable 
treachery of those who might gain his favor appalled 
him. Seldom slow to act in the face of an emer- 
gency, the owner of the Megaphone viewed the mat- 
ter from all its many sides during a few puflTs of his 
cigarette and then rose to his feet and moved slowly 
toward the door, the two men watching him in 
breathless silence, not knowing whether the next 
minute would find them discharged from his employ 
or infinitely richer in money and authority than they 
had ever dreamed possible. Not until his hand was 
on the knob of the door did Barshfield turn and say, 
“Very well, I accept your proposition.” 

The bloodless revolution had been accomplished, 
but no accurate account of it has ever reached Park 
Row, though recitals of the vaguest rumors have 
moistened many a dry throat in the Brasserie of 
Hard Times. Ever so gently had the scion of the 
oldest and most powerful of the newspaper dynas- 
ties yielded to the demands of his barons and dele- 
gated to them the government of his kingdom. The 
scepter, the ermine, the crown — all the insignia of 
power — were still his, but henceforth he was no 
longer to rule, merely to reign. 


22 


CHAPTER XXIX 


T he day that Kate Craven entered upon her 
new duties Penfield set himself to the task of 
getting something to do. But his reputation as a 
crafty, able, and unscrupulous politician had long 
preceded him, so that there was not a prime minister 
in all Park Row who was willing to give him employ- 
ment; and few autocrats can successfully defy their 
prime ministers. Having carefully looked the field 
over, the deposed Sunday editor waited in dignified 
silence for an offer that he was sure must come, only 
to realize, with feelings of mortification and amaze- 
ment, that nobody was anxious to claim his services. 

Mrs. Chilton-Smythe advised him to take up mag- 
azine work. Her smile, as she said this, seemed 
friendly, as well it might, for she saw in fancy her 
latest portrait printed with a page of kindly eulogy 
in the department headed “Interesting People of 
the Moment.” 

Stirred by these generous emotions, she invited 
him to lunch with her and meet one of a group of 
financiers who had recently bought a moribund 
magazine in the belief that there was “big money 
in publishing.” Now, it is a fact known only to a 
few of the most learned philosophers of the town 
that millionaires who are keener than ferrets while 
on the Stock Exchange can be made to believe almost 
anything if caught above Twenty-third Street. Their 

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wits seem to leave them one by one as they journey 
up-town, and have been known, in at least one in- 
stance, to vanish altogether near the lower end of 
Central Park. As Mrs. Chilton-Smythe lives in 
East Seventy-eighth Street, the financier was deeply 
impressed by Penfield’s breezy talk and the assur- 
ance with which he spoke of ‘‘catching the public” 
as if it were a human piscatorial art of which he was 
the master. The rich one was also quick to accept 
the assurance of his hostess that this glib, healthy- 
looking young man had been “Barshfield’s chief 
editor,” and that that famous newspaper proprietor 
was even then at his wits’ ends to replace him and 
save his own tottering throne. And when Penfield 
informed him in strict confidence that what every 
magazine needed was “new blood” the millionaire 
said to himself, “I have found the man,” and has- 
tened away to apprise his associates of his discovery. 
Within a fortnight Penfield had entered upon an en- 
tirely new phase of his career as the editor of The 
Standard Monthly. In accordance with the most 
cherished traditions of incompetency he hastened to 
change the shape, size, and make-up of the publica- 
tion, and to alter the date of issue from the twenty- 
first to the nineteenth of the month, thus proving 
to his employers that he was a “live wire.” Then 
he informed them that he was on the lookout for a 
“new Dooley or Kipling,” and they resumed the 
pursuit of their natural prey in the narrow streets 
of the financial quarter happy in the belief that the 
new editor would shortly “make things hum ” as he 
promised. 

Penfield’s first move was in the direction of that 
quicksand, so perilous to unaccustomed feet, called 

325 


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‘^modern art.’’ During his rambles in the region 
where well-advertised society and second-rate artists 
come together he had heard much about ‘‘virile” 
pictures painted by the “moderns,” and had seen 
a number of paintings and drawings that were so 
fervently admired that he was ashamed to admit 
that they seemed to him simply hideous. Like most 
men of his selfish type, he was fond of the sweetly 
sentimental and preferred “Fast Asleep and Wide 
Awake” and “I’m Grandmama Now” to the best 
work of those great modern artists who have shown 
us the beauty of ugliness. But, realizing the neces- 
sity of displaying originality, he made the round of 
the studios and told the tenants thereof that he 
wanted something “virile” and “striking,” in order 
that the Standard might become a dominant in- 
fluence in the development of native art in its most 
modern form. 

Now artists are not usually credited with business 
acumen, but in utilizing the waste products of their 
craft they are superior to the Standard Oil directors, 
and in an incredibly short space of time the news 
that an ignoramus had entered the picture-market 
had spread from Washington Square to Central 
Park. Next to painting a really good picture there 
is nothing that an artist enjoys more than selling 
a bad one, and what artist — no matter what his fame 
or ability — has not a few dismal failures sleeping in 
a portfolio or looking reproachfully on him from the 
studio wall ? Quick to realize and appreciate the wel- 
come opportunity, the wielders of the brush and char- 
coal poured in on the simple-minded Penfield and 
extolled the merits of their wares with an eloquence 
worthy of Daniel Webster, for, given a worthy 
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theme — such as their own merits — artists can indeed 
be eloquent. Never in the history of the town had 
such a number of atrociously bad pictures been un- 
loaded on a single purchaser. Studio walls were 
stripped of their eyesores and dusty portfolios gave 
up their hideous and almost forgotten dead. Re- 
lieved of these ghastly reminders of hopes unfulfilled, 
and with spirits materially lightened by substantial 
checks — Penfield was liberal with other men’s money 
— the illustrators returned to their legitimate work, 
and the old proverb about the ill wind blowing no- 
body good was once more verified. 

To this day artists look back to the reign of Pen- 
field as to a golden era of prosperity, while the writers 
of the town bless his name for his liberal purchase 
of their otherwise unsaleable wares. The decline of 
the great industry of ‘‘muck-raking” had left many 
of these with “exposures” of various industries on 
their hands, and these they were quick to un- 
load on the Standard, solemnly assuring its editor 
that he was conducting the only real live magazine 
in the country. 

Thus did Penfield become an humble instrument 
in the hands of Providence for the amelioration of 
the hard conditions against which art and letters 
maintain their ceaseless struggle for existence. But 
there is an end to all good things though the evils 
of life endure for ever. The steady decline of the 
Standard's circulation, at first brazenly attributed by 
its editor to his wise policy of “shaking down the 
deadwood so as to get to rock-bottom and build up,” 
finally awakened the suspicions of its backers, who 
were of the class that hates to lose money except 
through the stock-market, and Penfield was replaced 

327 


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by another incompetent who had caught their fancy 
by his learned conversation. 

Meanwhile Kate had thrown herself into the work 
of enchaining the attention of the more intelligent 
members of her sex, with a zeal and discretion that 
soon caused a slight rising of the barometer in the 
circulation department. She dismissed from her 
mind all that she had learned in New York about 
the supposed likes and dislikes of women, and, as- 
suming that her readers were as intelligent as her- 
self, addressed herself to them as if they were rea- 
soning human beings, and always from a distinctly 
feminine point of view. Her weekly articles on cur- 
rent plays and books were eagerly looked for by a 
rapidly increasing group of readers, and with good 
reason. Her familiarity with good literature gave 
her a perspective and a standard that made her 
criticisms of even the lightest of current fiction valu- 
able and interesting to those who were in the habit 
of reading books attentively — the only ones she con- 
sidered worth appealing to. To her essays in dramat- 
ic criticism she brought, instead of technical knowl- 
edge, a keen sympathy with and love of the theater, 
and an instinctive feeling for what is best and truest 
in dramatic art that enabled her to approach the 
stage in the spirit of a child anxious to secure the 
fullest measure of enjoyment, rather than as a blase 
professional critic anxious to go home to bed. More- 
over, she had never befogged her mind with essays 
on “The Intellectual Drama” or “The Need of a 
Municipal Theater” of the kind prepared by igno- 
rant academicians for the benefit of those as stupid 
as themselves. 

With this unusual equipment and a facile pen she 
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wrote a weekly column called ^‘The Woman at the 
Play/’ that accurately reflected the sentiments of 
thousands of her own sex. With these two features 
established, she started a fashion column of such 
startling novelty that Lady Clara gasped with horror 
at its blasphemous violation of all that the Woman’s 
Page has ever held sacred. In its columns she ac- 
tually held up to ridicule the most glaring absurdities 
of fashion, and even went so far as to lampoon the 
sayings and doings of some of the best advertised 
of those semi-public women whom she had once be- 
lieved in, but whom she now detested. This was 
done wittily, but in such a subtle manner that her 
victims were usually the last to learn that she was 
laughing at them. In this department Kate took a 
peculiar pride, for she had always resented the com- 
mon masculine sneer at her sex for its supposed lack 
of all humorous perception. She had long believed 
that the feminine sense of humor was strong, es- 
pecially in regard to matters relating to its own kind, 
and it was with the keenest delight that she under- 
took to prove the truth of her theory. 

Kate Craven’s wit was pungent with truth, as all 
real wit is, and the success of her reviews of fashion 
and its votaries was soon generally acknowledged. 
Barshfield was delighted with the results, and was 
quick to express his approval of the gentle ridicule 
of certain women who for years had harassed him 
for publicity. He even laughed when Mrs. Chilton- 
Smythe, having at last recognized herself in certain 
paragraphs which had afforded no small amusement 
to her friends, wrote an angry letter demanding the 
summary discharge of the offender. 

think it’s Miss Craven’s turn now,” he said to 

329 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Vanderlip; ‘‘and Fm rather glad to see that she has 
spunk enough to get even with that preposterous 
old cat for what she did to her last year.” 

And this remark Vanderlip hastened to repeat to 
Kate, for, in common with other journalists, he 
hated all semi-public women, even while printing 
pulFs of them that the most honored traditions of 
Park Row might be upheld. 

But Lady Clara was horror-stricken at the au- 
dacity of her young protegee. “It will never do in 
the world!” she cried. “Mrs. Chilton-Smythe is too 
strong with the throne for you to make fun of her. 
And besides, women don’t like jokes against their 
own sex. We none of us like being laughed at.” 

“Of course women don’t like those silly mother- 
in-law and old-maid jokes that the men think are so 
funny,” retorted Kate; “there’s nothing funny to us 
in the mother-in-law, because we know that in nine 
cases out of ten she burdens herself with the chil- 
dren. Nor do I see anything particularly amusing 
in a woman who can be happy though single. And 
it’s just because we know too much to laugh at those 
stupid jokes that men say we’ve no sense of humor. 
But there are a lot of us who like to laugh at the 
preposterous members of our sex, and that is pre- 
cisely the class I’m trying to reach and which no 
Woman’s Page — not even your own — has ever taken 
into account.” 

To this extraordinary confession of faith in the 
intelligence, good taste, and truth-loving qualities of 
her sex — a blend which usually creates a sense of 
humor — Lady Clara listened in dumb amazement. 
If the ideas of this bright but immature young girl 
were true she might expect at any moment to see 

330 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


the jerry-built edifice — ‘‘woman’s stuff” — come tum- 
bling down about her ears and her own occupation 
gone for ever. 

“For God’s sake, child,” she implored, “don’t tell 
any one of this discovery of yours! If you’re right 
— and I don’t say you’re not — it means my finish. 
I’m too old to learn any new tricks. But you’re 
wrong about Chilton-Smythe. Of course you and 
I know her and her woman’s movement, but the 
Megaphone readers believe in her, and they don’t 
like to see her ridiculed.” 

“Ever since I’ve been in Park Row,” replied Kate, 
gently, “I’ve been hearing that we who write the 
newspapers know a great deal more than those who 
read them, but I’ve long since ceased to believe it. 
In fact. I’m beginning to think that it’s just the other 
way and that the readers know more than the writers. 
Anyway, I’m tired of trying to fool them. It’s sure 
to prove a losing game in the long run. You can 
always get a certain following by simply telling peo- 
ple the truth. That’s the way men build up big 
reputations, but we women imagine that we can go 
on fooling all of the people, including ourselves, all 
of the time. I got an insight into Mrs. Chilton- 
Smythe’s real character when she helped to get me 
fired, and I propose to get square with her just as if 
we were men instead of women. That’s my idea of 
women’s rights. And you can be quite sure that 
plenty of other women have found her out and 
are only too glad to see her put where she be- 
longs.” 

All unknown to Kate Craven two persons in the 
town were following her course on the Megaphone 
with the liveliest sort of interest. Both Telford and 
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THE GREAT MIRAGE 


his mother read and chuckled over her amusing 
comments on the absurdities of fashionable life. It 
was Mrs. Telford who first saw that Mrs. Chilton- 
Smythe was being cleverly satirized, and the knowl- 
edge afforded her so much satisfaction that she 
showed the paper to a number of her friends, who 
in turn spoke of it to others, thus securing for it 
several regular buyers. It is in this fashion that 
newspaper circulation is built up. Had she known 
of this kindly interest on the part of Mrs. Telford, 
Kate would have been immeasurably gladdened and 
encouraged, for she had never forgotten the elder 
woman’s courtesy to her nor the delightful evening 
she had passed at her home. 

But kindly thoughts of the mother brought in 
their train thoughts of the son that were not kindly. 
Although she believed herself to have adopted the 
tactics of a man in her progress toward success, she 
still cherished a feminine animosity toward the man 
who had first told her the plain truth in regard to 
her infatuation for Floodmere. That subsequent 
events had proved him to have been right only in- 
tensified her resentment. Nor could she put him 
out of her mind, no matter how hard she tried. And 
yet she fully realized her enormous obligation to 
him for friendly counsel and assistance, and, above 
all, for showing her the difference between the real 
New York and the city of her dreams. In time, she 
thought, they might become friends again, but their 
growing intimacy had received a check from which 
it could never recover. 

Of course the number of readers gained by Kate’s 
new and novel brand of ‘‘woman’s stuff” was a very 
small element in the prodigious sum of the Mega- 

332 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


phone s circulation; but it was the very element that 
Barshfield prized very highly and found it difficult 
to get. The circulation manager, watching the sales 
as a hen her brood, noted a slight increase here and 
there in what he called ‘‘the silk-stocking district,’’ 
and by shrewd questioning of the newsdealers learned 
that the new buyers were chiefly women, which fact 
he duly reported to his employer. 

As Kate usually left the office early in the after- 
noon, while Telford did not arrive until four, she saw 
nothing of him; but one Friday night she returned 
to make some alterations in her page, and it was not 
until after twelve that she started for home. The 
wind was blowing and rain was falling in fierce tor- 
rents as, facing both, she marched toward the sub- 
way station with her umbrella held in front of her, 
little dreaming that Fate was treading close behind. 
Suddenly her foot slipped and she found herself 
seated on the wet pavement with the waters appar- 
ently rising about her. As she tried to rise she felt 
herself aided by two strong arms, and, on turning, 
found herself face to face with that Fate in the person 
of Ernest Telford. It would be hard to say which 
of the two was more surprised, for the rewrite-man, 
occupied with his own reflections, had not recognized 
in the cloaked and dripping figure in front of him 
the girl who was so seldom absent from his thoughts. 
Kate, being a woman, was the first to recover herself. 
With a few words of thanks she lifted her umbrella 
again and was about to continue her journey when 
a sharp pain in her ankle brought her to a standstill. 

“You’re hurt,” said Telford, quickly, and with a 
note of anxious sympathy in his voice to which she 
was not insensible. 


333 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“Fm afraid I am/’ she said, ‘‘but I shall be all 
right in another minute.” 

Telford’s reply took the form of a summons to a 
prowling cabman, and, as the ramshackle vehicle 
drew up at the curb, he lifted her bodily in his arms 
and carried her to its open door. It was the first 
time in all her life that she had been carried thus in 
a man’s arms; but it never occurred to her to resist. 
On the contrary, the sudden transition from the cold, 
wet pavement to the warm security of his close em- 
brace was infinitely soothing to her soul. The dis- 
tance to the curb was but half a dozen steps, but it 
was long enough to melt her antagonism and bring 
to her mind the vague thought that it would be good 
to be thus borne and sheltered for all time. And 
at the same moment Telford felt all his starved 
heart-hunger return a thousand times stronger than 
ever before, together with the feeling that the place 
for this girl was in his arms and that to him belonged 
the right to love and cherish and guard her. Passive- 
ly and with her weary eyes closed, Kate allowed him 
to place her on the cushioned seat. She heard him 
give the order to the driver and then he was beside 
her, the door closed, and the cab in motion. It had 
all been sudden and unlooked for, and now she began 
to feel weak and dependent and ready to cry. Then 
his arm slipped around her so easily and naturally 
that it seemed to belong there, and, unconsciously, 
she leaned against his shoulder and quietly wept from 
pure happiness. 

It was an old-fashioned coupe drawn by a weary 
old horse, but they both found the journey up-town 
far too short for all that they had to say to each 
other. There were moments when Kate was glad 
334 


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they were not in a hansom with a trap-door in the 
roof for the driver to peek through, but long before 
she reached home even that would not have dis- 
turbed her. By that time Telford had broken down 
her last feeling of resentment and swept her into his 
heart by sheer force of his love. The storm that 
raged without was nothing in comparison with the 
torrent of words — incoherent perhaps, but none the 
less sweet and tender — and the smothering kisses 
which told her all that her heart could wish to know. 
Forgotten were her wounded feelings of the past 
months; forgotten also the pain in her ankle — how 
she did bless that fortunate hurt! — forgotten every- 
' thing except the supreme joy of loving and being 
loved, and knowing that her barque had passed the 
last of the rocks and shoals and quicksands and 
come into safe anchorage at last. 

Leaning heavily on the arm that was henceforth 
to support and protect her, Kate reached her room, 
and, refusing to allow him to send for a doctor, bade 
Telford good night and aroused Lady Clara, who, 
attired in her scarlet kimono, bound up the injured 
member in bandages soaked in liniment and then 
tucked her comfortably away in bed, asking no ques- 
tions but shrewdly suspecting much, for Kate seemed 
radiantly happy in spite of her injury, and smilingly 
refused to say who had brought her home. 

As for Telford, he overpaid the cabman with a 
smile of seraphic joy on his face that made that 
dripping and blanketed night-hawk wish that he 
had charged him twice as much. For nearly an hour 
he sat in his dimly lighted dining-room smoking and 
thinking. And in this moment of quiet communion 
with himself his thoughts went back to that other 
335 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


evening many years ago, when, as a young Harvard 
graduate and the only son of a rich and highly placed 
man, he had olFered himself to and been accepted 
by the ambitious young girl whose only dower was 
her beauty. He recalled with vivid distinctness his 
feelings as he sat before the wood-fire in his father’s 
luxurious library far into the night, intoxicated with 
his triumph and anxious for the morning to dawn 
that all the world — meaning the little one in which 
he moved — might envy him his good fortune. And 
what were those feelings? Analyzing them now in 
the light of later and riper knowledge he realized 
that what he had mistaken for love was largely van- 
ity and egotism. He had said to her, “I love you!” 
and it had appeared to him — such is the splendid 
selfishness of raw youth — that nothing more was 
needed to make the union an ideal one. That she 
could help loving him was not imaginable. He 
scarcely gave the matter a second thought. Swell- 
ing his pride still further was the knowledge that out 
of many who had wooed he alone had been chosen. 
He remembered how, in the fullness of his triumph, 
he had felt a certain pity for one of the unsuccessful 
ones and had hoped that he might in due time find 
some one who would make him happy. It was for 
this one’s wedding-gift that he had afterward saved 
and scrimped even while hating him. He pitied 
him now. 

Of course, mingled with his vanity and egotism 
there had been the wish to make this early love of 
his supremely happy. What more could woman 
ask than such a love as his, backed with social posi- 
tion and wealth? Their home should be in the 
country — she would soon learn to love rural life as 
33fi 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


much as he did — and they would spend their honey- 
moon abroad, not, as she suggested, in Paris and 
London, where she had never been, but in distant 
countries that he had always wished to visit. Yes, 
he would allow nothing to stand in the way of her 
happiness — that is, nothing that he really wanted 
himself. 

These retrospections brought a smile to his face 
now, for, since those far-off days, disappointment and 
self-privation and anxiety had taught him the lesson 
that is never learned in college, and he knew the 
true meaning of life and love. (There should be a 
chair of each one of these important branches of 
learning in every university in the land.) He was 
not thinking exultantly now of his love for the woman 
he had won, but, with humility and a sense of his 
own unworthiness, of the wonderful fact that she had 
condescended to love him. By what acts of self- 
sacrifice could he ever repay her for the priceless 
gift that she had bestowed upon him.f^ For his was 
the love of middle-age, purified and exalted by years 
of self-abnegation — a love far deeper and stronger 
than the blend of vanity and selfishness that the 
playwrights and novelists call youthful affections, 
and about which all human sympathy and interest 
are supposed to cluster. 

Meanwhile Kate slept, and it is fair to presume 
that her dreams were happy. But no dream, no 
matter how rosy, was a more hopeful augury for her 
future happiness than that of her middle-aged lover 
wondering, humbly, reverently, and gratefully, how 
he should make her happy. 

Lady Clara, awakened by the ringing of the tele- 
phone bell at what seemed to her an unearthly hour 
337 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


in the morning, heard Telford’s voice inquiring for 
Kate, and understood it all in the space of a flash 
of lightning. Years of experience in what she called 
the ‘‘heart-interest end of things” had given her a 
supernaturally keen scent for a love affair, and she 
went back to her bed with tear-dimmed eyes, her 
simple soul aglow with sympathy and happiness. 
Kate awoke to find her standing beside her bed, a 
breakfast-tray in her hands, her face radiant with 
joy. 

“Darling!” she cried, “Fm too delighted to think 
straight! Sit up and tell me all about it! But first 
eat this nice breakfast Fve fixed for you. I knew 
the day you dressed up for him that something was 
going to come of it; and he’s just the loveliest man 
in all Park Row, and sure to make you happy.” 

By this time Kate had come back from the land 
of dreams, and was wondering what had happened 
to make her spirits so light and her foot so sore. 
Lady Clara’s incoherent rhapsody was still ringing 
in her ears as if it had been part of her dreams; but 
before she could separate the vision from the real a 
sudden recollection of the night before swept through 
her mind, blotting out all other thoughts and bring- 
ing the quick color to her cheeks. Could that be 
real or was it only a dream? It must be true, be- 
cause here was Lady Clara standing beside her bed 
telling her how glad she was. But how in the world 
could she have found out? Kate knew perfectly 
well that she herself had not told her, for, as she re- 
membered now, she had gone to sleep hugging her 
precious secret close to her breast in the hope of 
dreaming over it, as a young mother might sleep and 
dream with her infant in her arms. In what mys- 
338 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


terious fashion, then, had this weaver of “heart-in- 
terest’’ stories probed her inmost thoughts? 

“See here,” she cried, sitting up in bed, “how in 
the world did you find out about it? I certainly told 
you nothing last night, and yet here you are offering 
your congratulations just as if you knew all that 
happened.” 

Just then the telephone rang again, and Kate 
leaped out of bed and rushed to answer the 
call. 

“That’s the way I found out,” cried Lady Clara; 
but the other scarcely heard her, so eager was she 
to listen to her lover’s voice. She even forgot her 
bandaged ankle until a sharp pain changed her run 
into a hop and brought her up standing on one leg 
like a stork with the receiver in her hand and her 
face shining with pure joy as the language of love 
came floating over the wire: “Yes, yes!” she an- 
swered. “Always and for ever!” 

Assured on this point, Telford went on to explain 
why he had called her up at such an early hour: 
“I was so much occupied last night in telling you 
how much I loved you and discussing other irrele- 
vant matters, that I entirely forgot to say what I 
had intended to say regarding a project which is 
still uppermost in my mind. I want you to marry 
me. Will you?” 

“Why, I thought that was all understood between 
us,” replied Kate, innocently. 

“Then may I come and hear it from your own lips? 
I sha’n’t believe it until I do.” 

“Certainly! Come at once! I’ll be dressed by 
that time. Where are you? At home?” 

“No, I’m in the hotel next door.” 

23 339 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Kate felt a foolish thrill at the thought of her 
lover’s nearness. 

“Oh, you mustn’t come yet!” she cried. “Give 
me half an hour and then come.” 

“Very well, but don’t keep me a second later,” 
replied Telford. “By the way, there’s another thing 
I wanted to ask you. How is your ankle?” 

“Better, thank you. Now don’t you be late!” 

Lady Clara had no wings, except in a metaphori- 
cal sense, but she could fly better than she could 
keep such a secret as that which she carried in her 
broad bosom that morning. She opened her desk 
at eleven o’clock, and five minutes later the news 
was spreading through the office and overflowing into 
the Brasserie of Hard Times, and thence into every 
city-room in Park Row. The various hen-coops 
buzzed with the exciting intelligence, the editorial 
staff of the Megaphone marveled at it, and Macy and 
Vanderlip, who but yesterday would have met in 
secret session to decide whether or no such an alliance 
could be regarded as a menace to themselves, hon- 
estly rejoiced. Telford, arriving at the office at his 
usual hour that afternoon, was thunderstruck to find 
a bouquet of roses tied with white ribbon lying on his 
desk, and the members of the staff waiting to con- 
gratulate him. Never before had he known news 
to fly so fast. Even Tops grinned knowingly when 
he came to summon him to the royal presence. 

Barshfield rose as he entered and held out his hand 
with even more than his usual cordiality. “If what 
I hear is true, Mr. Telford, I offer my heartiest con- 
gratulations,” he said, pleasantly. Then he contin- 
ued in the serious manner that he always assumed 
when making a new arrangement with one of his 

340 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


staff: “I have been thinking lately that you might 
like to do work of a better sort than re-writing. How 
would you like to make a change?’’ 

Yesterday Telford would have taken fright at the 
suggestion, but now the prospect of bettering his 
fortunes was a most welcome one, for, true lover that 
he was, he was eager to earn all he could for the 
woman who had promised to become his wife. 

‘‘Think it over,” continued Barshfield, before the 
other could reply. “Of course the salary will change 
for the better as well as the job.” 

All this friendly interest was very pleasant to the 
rewrite-man, who had never sought intimacy with 
any of his associates, but on the other hand had 
never tried to advance himself over their heads. 
Now he began to have a feeling of positive affection 
for the men and women among whom he had toiled 
for so many years, and unconsciously he imparted 
some of his own buoyancy to the copy he rewrote 
that night. The magic yeast of love was at work 
clearing away some of the corroding cynicism from 
his heart and giving freer play to the gentler spirit 
underneath. 


CHAPTER XXX 


FEW weeks later there was a wedding in the 



ivy-hung down-town church where the Tel- 
fords had worshiped — ^when they worshiped at all 
— for many decades. Mrs. Craven and Mrs. Tel- 
ford occupied the front pew, and Lady Clara, look- 
ing distinctly out of place in the sacred edifice — she 
wore a recent gift of Mr. Blumenstein’s of the well- 
known firm of that name — sat directly across the 
aisle and sniffled audibly during the ceremony. The 
church was comfortably filled with friends and rela- 
tives of the Telfords, besides the Marshalls, Macy, 
Vanderlip, and even Barshfield himself — a rare piece 
of courtesy on the part of the last-named, and one 
that gave to the contracting pair a distinct cachet 
in the eyes of Park Row. 

Both Kate and her husband were deeply touched 
by the generosity of their friends. Not only did 
Macy and Vanderlip contribute to their silver-chest, 
but the “office’’ indicated its esteem by sending a 
complete set of knives, forks, and spoons. 

“We’ve had another gift that I haven’t told you 
about,” said Telford, as they were driving to the 
railway station. “Barshfield called me into his 
room yesterday to say that Penhallow had re- 
signed — ” 

“And you’re to be dramatic critic!” cried Kate, 
joyfully. “Oh, I’m so glad! It’s what you’ve al- 
342 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


ways wanted, and now I can go to the theater as 
much as I want to and to first nights, too!’" 

Her cup of happiness was indeed running over. 

My tale is drawing to its logical and what I re- 
gard as a satisfying close, and yet the most difficult 
part of my task lies before me, for I must prove that 
my heroine has attained the very best that New 
York has to offer despite the ugly fact that she has 
married a comparatively poor man. So conspicu- 
ously do the advantages of wealth and fashion loom 
in the popular imagination, so insistently are they 
dwelt on by writers of fiction, so constantly are they 
exploited in conversation, and so bitter is the envy 
they excite in breasts which should know only con- 
tentment, that I seriously doubt my ability to show 
that the town has anything else of real value to 
offer. 

That wealth has not completely hardened the 
hearts of its possessors is shown by their enormous 
benefactions. But it is equally true that money 
blunts the keen edge of appreciation and robs its 
possessors of much of the enjoyment of life. His 
must be a rare character who can derive keen pleas- 
ure from Keats or a joke or a sunset and count dol- 
lars in a bag at the same time. In all the varied life 
of New York there is no phase less interesting than 
its wealth and fashion. Its votaries admit their own 
social inferiority by the eagerness with which they 
seek the acquaintance of even the least distinguished 
toilers in the vineyard of arts and letters. It is 
needless to speak here of the load of anxiety, respon- 
sibility, and annoyance that wealth carries on its 
shoulders. It dare not show its head, even as a 
343 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


generous benefactor, for fear of becoming a target for 
abuse, ridicule, and “muck-raking/’ In no commu- 
nity that I know of is the stalled ox less palatable; 
in none can a dinner of herbs be eaten with greater 
satisfaction and contentment. 

And yet I doubt if Kate Telford appreciates the 
number and value of her many blessings any more 
than she comprehends the real nature of the quick- 
sands and pitfalls that she has escaped in her ven- 
turesome journey from her mother’s side to her 
present safe anchorage. Of the many things that 
contribute to her happiness not one was visible as 
she first approached the city and noted with eager 
joy the ruddy overhanging glare. Not for her are 
automobiles, costly entertainments, and rich furs 
and jewels, nor the mob of brilliant women, in- 
teresting men, trust magnates, captains of industry, 
and leaders of fashion who stood out so conspicuous- 
ly in her old dreams. An infinitely better fortune 
is hers, for she loves and is loved by a high-minded, 
honorable gentleman, who, seeing with a marvelously 
clear vision, can show her the difference between 
the true and the false, between that which is really 
worth having and the empty vanities for which mis- 
guided men and women sacrifice their best energies. 

That she should continue to work diligently at her 
calling instead of abandoning herself to idleness and 
diversion may seem strange to those who cannot 
divorce happiness from money-spending in their 
dreams of life. In these dreams the sports of the 
idle rich loom large, but in the real life of the town 
those who live only for amusement rust like pianos 
at the seashore. Our brisk climate makes activity 
necessary to happiness. 


344 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Moreover, Kate’s work, like Telford’s, is of a kind 
that seldom palls. To one really fond of the theater, 
the first night of a new play has a perennial charm, 
and the more we learn of the stage the keener our 
interest in a new production with all its possibilities 
of noteworthy success or ludicrous failure. Added 
to this is the sense of responsibility that goes with it 
— the opportunity to be the first to announce the 
appearance of a new star in the theatrical firmament 
or to hold up to just ridicule the pretentiously bad 
actor or the dramatist whose work is drawn from the 
treasure-house of a mature memory. After more 
than a third of a century of professional theater- 
going, I can truthfully say that a first night is one 
of the few pleasures of my youth that have preserved 
their charm. 

In addition to the rare privilege of earning a 
liberal salary through work that she enjoys, Kate’s 
life is one of remarkable felicity. In the office, as 
well as in their home, she and her husband swim 
safely in a little eddy of their own, where the water 
is always smooth, — no matter how fiercely the storms 
of rivalry, jealousy, political manoeuvring, or social 
striving may rage outside. Barshfield likes their 
work, and Macy and Vanderlip — now secure them- 
selves — know that the new combination can do 
them no harm and the paper, in which both hold 
stock, much good. Relieved of the cares of house- 
keeping by the elder Mrs. Telford — the crabbed 
mother-in-law is merely the comic relief of the 
mirage — Kate has time to continue her own work 
and to assist her husband in his, and their combined 
earnings enable them to live in comfort and without 
the perpetual scrimping that so often sends love 
345 . 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


flying out of the window. More than one wife 
would cheerfully exchange her rich, stingy, and in- 
quisitive husband for the financial independence 
which Kate Telford enjoys. 

Telford, brought up as the son of a rich father, 
has long since put away all dreams of wealth, and 
is content to enjoy the good things that the gods 
provide, among which is a social position so strongly 
rooted that he can share it with his wife. And social 
position is a matter of supreme importance to a 
woman in a small village as well as in a large city, 
and nowhere is it of greater value than in this noisy 
town which would be unbearable were it not for 
some of the people who live within its gates. 

The term ‘‘getting into society” is generally used 
to signify the manner in which vulgarians push their 
way into drawing-rooms where they are tolerated 
rather than wanted, and in New York this is not the 
difficult achievement that successful pushers would 
have us believe. It is largely a question of tireless 
patience, an infinite capacity for being bored, and a 
willingness to pay with smiling face for tickets of 
admittance to the chambers of boredom. The gold- 
en gates swing far more easily than those who gaze 
from afar believe. The dwellers within are for the 
most part kindly, good-natured folk who live to be 
amused, and will smile rather than frown upon any 
one who can make them laugh. The bitterness of 
the dreary London climb is almost unknown in New 
York. But to get out of society and still maintain 
a hold on the best that it offers is not an easy matter, 
and this the Telfords — mother and son — had con- 
trived to do. Their financial reverses had had the 
beneficial effect of scraping off the social barnacle^ 
34 ^ 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


that had attached themselves to them during the 
years of their prosperity, leaving only stanch friends 
of the kind that regard misfortune as a tie that binds 
rather than as an excuse for neglect. 

Neither on Broadway nor Fifth Avenue did the 
newly wedded couple set up their household gods, 
but in a down -town cross -street, where they ob- 
tained at a modest rental sunlight, fresh air, and 
quiet, three of the most costly urban luxuries and 
less conspicuous in the great mirage than are a 
sound digestion and a good set of teeth in the under- 
graduate dream of life. 

Knowing that true social position is founded not 
on the people with whom one scrapes acquaintance, 
but on the undesirables who are avoided, the wise 
Telford leased an apartment up two flights of stairs 
in a house without an elevator. 

‘‘I am doing this,’’ he explained to his wife, “in 
order to strengthen our social position. Anybody 
will go up in an elevator, but the only people who 
will consent to climb stairs in New York are your 
friends, and each flight keeps out just so many 
bores, society pushers, and others of the vast army 
who are ‘on the make.’ Were my only ambition a 
social one I would live on the roof.” 

To Lady Clara, who expressed the fear of her 
simple heart that “smart people” might neglect to 
call, he made answer: “Smartness is the cheapest 
thing in this town. All it costs is money.” 

He giveth His beloved sleep. He giveth also, and 
— such is His mercy and loving-kindness — even unto 
the unregenerate, an infinite capacity for laughter. 
And among those thus blessed are to be found the 
disciples of subcutaneous thought, a school of phi- 
347 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


losophy in which the processes of meditation begin 
well below the hair-roots. Only to these chosen ones 
has been given the priceless joy of splendid laughter 
as the various idiocies of the town unfold themselves 
before their gaze. Nor is theirs the hollow throat 
cackle of those who laugh at what they are inca- 
pable of understanding, but the honest laughter of 
soul, mind, and diaphragm — laughter that is tem- 
pered with a grateful reverence for a merciful Provi- 
dence which offers so much for the exclusive delecta- 
tion of the wise. 

To this school of thought Telford belonged, and 
by virtue of its teachings he was able to show his 
wife — a quick and eager student — ^when to laugh 
and when to weep. The strange fetich of ‘‘know- 
ing desirable people” he regarded very much as 
a devout Christian looks upon the worship of 
graven images — badly graven at that. For years 
he had been able to pick and choose his friends from 
the eddying currents of metropolitan life, and these 
formed the nucleus of one of the most agreeable 
circles that it has ever been my fortune to know. 

Telford was, of course, far too decent to fatten 
famous players, singers, and authors with puffery 
and then invite them to his home that they might 
serve as bait for persons of social prominence; but 
he had friends in the dramatic profession, as well as 
among artists and writers, who were well worth 
knowing and were above currying favor for the sake 
of puffs or taking offense at criticism. Of course no 
imitation actors like Floodmere and Roberta Rowen- 
na were ever sought by the Telfords, no matter how 
high the esteem in which they were held in the best 
society for their bad acting. Equally unpopular \Yith 
348 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


them were those solemn and important ones who 
talk of nothing but themselves, their “art,’’ the in- 
dignities they have suffered at the hands of the 
critics, and the manner in which somebody else 
played the part or painted the picture. The young 
woman who was going from society to the stage, and 
was therefore in need of a kindly word of encourage- 
ment, was also absent from their revels; nor was 
there ever any place for the great army of the whin- 
ing, the misunderstood, the neglected, and the un- 
appreciated children of genius. From the very first 
they made it a rule that nobody should tell a hard- 
luck story on their premises. Nor was it permitted 
to wear a look of patient martyrdom of the kind that 
calls for sympathy. 

Telford delighted in warning his wife against the 
many social pests that infest the town, and made 
plain to her the various earmarks by which each one 
could be distinguished. He put her on her guard 
against the self-seeking flatterer, and him who is 
always laughing above his collar- button, thus in- 
dicating to the trained sense that he wants some- 
thing. Above all did he warn her against the male 
society pusher or climber. “He is like a porch- 
climber,” he said, “because, like those other pushers, 
he is trying to enter houses where he is not wanted. 
Climbing may sometimes be pardoned in a woman, 
but a male climber is a wrong ’un every time.” 

A great many of their friends were good talkers, 
and their Sunday-night suppers soon acquired so 
much local fame that Miss Smithers was not ashamed 
to manoeuver in her guileless way for an invitation. 
Telford laughed heartily when this was brought to 
his ears, but Kate declared her wish to oblige her. 
349 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


“Only this once, Ernest, dear!’’ she pleaded. “I 
do so want to show her that I’m somebody in the 
line of her own ambition. Besides, she was always 
nice to me, and not at all like that horrid Chilton- 
Smythe woman who got me fired from the Mega- 
phone, and whose picture will never get in there 
again except over my dead body. I’ll ask Miss 
Smithers for next Sunday, and we’ll have guests for 
her special benefit.” 

Telford gave a grudging consent, not because he 
sympathized with his wife’s harmless vanity, but 
because he had not been married long enough to 
refuse her anything. Miss Smithers, who knew so 
little of social ethics that she had been known to 
invite one well-connected Englishman to meet an- 
other in the ingenuous belief that the rencontre 
would prove pleasing to both, cheerfully climbed 
the two flights of stairs and was sufficiently well 
bred to finish her panting on the upper landing so 
as to enter with a serene and smiling face. The 
celebrities invited for her special benefit delighted 
her soul, and she was amazed to note that they did 
not either all talk at once or else maintain a sulky 
silence. For the first time in her life she saw an 
eminent singer enter a drawing-room without either 
his hostess’s check or a certificated sore throat on 
his person. 

And so it came to pass that, entering the great 
mirage and traveling by a circuitous and often peril- 
ous road, Kate Craven found at last in the real city 
such contentment, happiness, and usefulness as she 
had never dreamed of. The New York in which she 
dwells is not the city of the very rich and the very 
poor, the gloriously happy Four Hundred and a 
350 


THE GREAT MIRAGE 


Wall Street paved with gold, but the real New York 
of the cross-streets, where it is still possible to live 
within one’s means in quiet dignity and comfort, 
heedless of what others may spend and undisturbed 
by the rumbling of the sight-seeing coach or the 
chattering of the monkeys in the trees. Of the many 
vain dreams and ambitions which she brought with 
her to the city, only the desire to do something for 
women survives. And, seeing clearly now, she no 
longer devotes herself to the exploitation of the self- 
seeking, but writes for her own sex, wisely, temper- 
ately, and with a respect for feminine intelligence 
that has won for her a wide circle of readers. 

I often wonder if she appreciates the blessings of 
her lot. 


THE END 




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